The Flat Mates
by JayEvans
Summary: the chronicle of the messed-up romance between Sherlock Holmes and Lana Heart. serve with coffee and a side of murder. rated T for violence and language
1. Rush Hour

Rush Hour

_In which we meet Lana Heart, Sherlock is late, and John does the unthinkable_

Regardless of what else you might have to say to him, Sherlock Holmes's relationships are off the table in terms of conversation topics.

Because honestly, Sherlock knows that half of the people he associates with either think he's gay and at once assume he and John are together, or else they assume that he's straight as a ruler but is completely devoid of any form of human affection (Sally kindly pointed that out 5 out of every 6 times she saw him) and Sherlock is getting pretty sick of it. He honestly doesn't care what people think of him, but if someone starts bringing up Lana or John, he starts to lose a bit of control. So unless you want to see him turn the spots on his cheeks a bright pink and potentially end up with a sword across your neck while Sherlock politely asks you to shut up, don't even try to bring up his relationships with anyone. Including the skull. Don't even think about bringing up the skull.

Oh, good. You're still here.

So, Sherlock. The brilliant, dark-haired, awkward, high-functioning sociopath upstairs. Thirty-four years old, and he was still as ignorant about relationships as a twelve year old boy. He never seemed to think that knowing how to treat a girl (or boy, or anyone really) was necessary information and somewhere along the way had deleted it from the cold, heartless hard drive that was known as his brain (again, thank you Sally), replacing for some other form of data he had needed for his latest case. Which, in this situation, was choosing the right route to take home in order to get back to Baker Street before rush hour. Up to his neck in a serial murder case, and in no mood to sit in a cab for three hours, Sherlock jumped out of the taxi, thrust some money into the cabbie's hands, and waded out of the middle of the road and onto the sidewalk. He had miscalculated; his plane home had been late, and he had been so wrapped up in the blood samples sitting in his bag that he never bothered to notice he had boarded the plane two hours later than he should have. He also didn't bother to notice how packed the streets were until he found himself trapped in Piccadilly right in the middle of the evening rush. So, disregarding the angry honking of the other cars and cabs, and cursing under his breath, Sherlock heaved his traveling case out of the cab's boot and hit the streets. Walking would be faster than sitting through this mess.

An hour and a heavy rain shower later, and still dragging the case full of chemicals, spare shirts and blood samples behind him, Sherlock gave himself a break. Leaning against the nearest wall, he pushed back his black hair and wiped the rain off his high, pale forehead. It had somehow refused to tan even though he had just returned from the latest murder victim's home in the South of France. John would laugh, and Sherlock knew it, but he did want to get home and get it over with quickly so that he could have the rest of the night to test the blood samples. They had been collected from each of the ten victims that had piled up in the past few weeks. This case was intriguing, and if Sherlock had it his way, he would have checked himself into the nearest hotel and spent the night there. Unfortunately, he knew that failing to arrive back home tonight would cause John to be pissed off at him for the next few days, and he was in no mood to deal with that when he needed John's help on this case so badly. Sherlock looked at his watch; it was six thirty already, and John would be annoyed if he walked in and just started working again, and he still had six blocks to go, so he heaved the case right side up and just kept walking.

There was little moon that night, and the lights of the shops he passed left patches of reflected color along the puddles on the sidewalk as Sherlock headed home. It didn't matter what he was thinking about; it was probably something about the latest victim's death anyway, but what does matter is that he stopped thinking about it just at a moment of total silence. For a brief second, no sounds echoed down that line of shops, giving Sherlock the silence and time he needed to hear something.

It was coming from the alley, whatever it was, and it wasn't until Sherlock stopped in that moment that he heard two words that grabbed his attention. The words were a name, but a name that Sherlock knew well, considering he had spent the past three days looking at the person's body.

"Mike Heart."

Pausing at the alley's mouth, Sherlock tuned out the sounds that had restarted around him and strained to hear more. It was clearly a woman speaking, and judging by the shaking of her voice, she was angry, afraid, and ready for a fight. Sherlock couldn't see who she was speaking too, and because he was already involved in the case as it was, he decided to make a stupid decision. Abandoning the case beside a dumpster at the alley's mouth, he crept farther into the dark. The woman and two others were standing about halfway down the alley, so Sherlock dove behind two huge crates and stuck his head over the top.

And that was when he first saw Lana.

She was backed against the dirty brick wall, her small frame surrounded by a raincoat two sizes to big for her. Her long hair was spilling out around her still shiny from the shower. An open window high above cast a beam of light down onto the scene, throwing into sharp relief her angular features and heart shaped face. Two men had her cornered up against the bricks, both big bulky men with rough features and brass knuckles, and it all would have looked like a usual mugging and rape not worth Sherlock's time, except for the fact that the girl was holding a semi-automatic pistol and looked intended to use it. Sherlock could see why the two men hesitated; one more step toward her and blood would spatter the alley.

I think that was when Sherlock became intrigued; that moment when Lana had the tables turned on the men twice her size. She was small; five foot two at most, and couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds, and yet she was holding off against two men that looked like giants in suits. Sherlock suddenly found himself not only listening for information, but also fulfilling his burning curiosity to see how this would end.

The woman still had the gun, and was speaking to both of the men, moving the pistol back and forth between the two of them. "I know you two killed him. You left your mark on him and I traced it back here. But there's something else too; all of these murders that have been happening have a similar mark in common along with the unique murderer. So don't you dare lie to me; why did you kill Mike Heart?"

The two men said nothing. Sherlock stared at them through the moment of silence, before turning his attention back to the girl, who had cocked her head and smiled.

"Ah, I see. You don't know why you killed him; you only killed him for the money. Clearly your boss doesn't like getting his hands dirty so he's making you to take the dirt for it because he made you leave your mark on the body, but they still want some credit for the killing, so they made you leave another mark on there as well. So," here she cocked the pistol and pointed it between the first man's eyes, "are you going to tell me who you work for, or do I have to kill you and then ask your friend over there? He seems to be more of the talker."

Again, there was total ringing silence.

And then the second man moved like lightning. With a swipe to the face, he knocked the girl away, making a grab for the gun as she twisted sideways and rolled across the ground. The girl managed to keep her grip on the pistol, and as the second men moved toward her, she took careful aim and fired a well placed shot into his leg. He collapsed, howling in pain, and his partner ran forward, vaulting over one of the trash bins and catching the girl by the hair. She cried out, and the gun skittered across the ground to the other side of the alley, where it stopped two feet in front of a very shocked Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't that Sherlock hadn't expected some sort of fight; quite the contrary, he could tell the girl wasn't planning on going anywhere until she got what she wanted. What had surprised him in the first place was that the gun was loaded. Considering London's crime rate, he knew most girls from abroad had the sense to have some sort of weapon on them, but he would never have suspected this girl had the guts to pull a loaded gun on two men.

The second thing that Sherlock noticed had nothing to do with the gun.

Meanwhile, it seemed the girl's attackers had gotten the upper hand. While one held her down, the other one dragged himself over to her, blood still pouring out of the wound, and was proceeding to beat the girl senseless. Each blow from the brass knuckles tore at her skin, leaving long scrapes and red marks with every punch, and yet, she kept fighting them. Eyes open, muscles convulsing, she still managed to scream out a string of curses for every blow they landed. At least until they landed a punch to the throat. With a gasp and a choked wheeze, the girl's cries were cut short as she went limp in the first attacker's arms. Slowly deliberately, the second man produced a switchblade and began to carefully trace it across the girl's shirt.

Is was odd for Sherlock to show much human emotion; ask John and he could talk about it for hours. Aside from Sherlock's rare form of compassion that he only reserved for John in moments of dangerous situations and snap decisions, he generally preferred to act as though the world was an unfeeling collection of facts, and should be treated as such. But in the end, the dark-haired consulting detective could only pull a few facts from this situation because he was so busy thinking about…something else. But here were the facts, all the same.

Fact- this girl was getting beaten to a pulp for a reason that connected to his serial murder case, and Fact- she was probably going to be beaten to death unless someone came and stopped the men, and Fact- this girl had information that he desperately needed to solve the case, but

Fact- she wouldn't be any help unless someone helped her.

Oh yes, and

Fact- Sherlock had the gun.

The whole thinking process took about five seconds, and, after considering this data, Sherlock made his second reckless, stupid snap decision of the night.

….

Meanwhile, Lana's sight was going black. She could feel her attacker's blows racking through her body, but couldn't life her arms to try and block them. The world was swimming before her, but she fought to keep her eyes open, glaring at the men with all the rage she could muster. Blinking blood out of her eyes, she chanced a glance up at the stars above, calmly observing her death as though they got this every day. Lana would have sighed, but she didn't seem to remember how to breathe anymore. The world had turned fuzzy and red; tilting this way and that as her attackers suddenly threw her to the ground. She felt the blow to the head, and her face was angled suddenly toward the alley's mouth. Unable to move, and aching with something more than physical pain, Lana saw with surprise that her two attackers were running down the alley and into the night. A shot was fired somewhere nearby, or maybe it was a car backfiring, or maybe it was just her brain screaming in protest. In any case, Lana's head was pounding so badly and her senses were so fuzzy that everything she heard could have been anything else.

As the red world went black, Lana knew she only had a few minutes. She searched for something, someone, anyone to help her. But all she saw was a figure, death probably, heading her way. She caught only a glint of metal and a flash of pale skin before everything went dark.

….

It was seven thirty, and John Watson was pacing the floor, alternating glances at his watch and the still closed door. He knew he shouldn't be concerned; Sherlock had been late before, but that didn't stop John from worrying about him. He knew that Sherlock could take care of himself; after all, he had gambled his life plenty in his line of work; but still, Sherlock was known to take these risks to the extreme.

John threw another glance at his watch. It was seven thirty-three; Sherlock should have been back hours ago. Sighing, he threw himself into the nearest armchair and did something he hoped he would never do; he swiveled around and addressed the skull sitting on the mantle.

"Why does he always do this?" John asked the empty bone. "I know this is important, but still; he could give me some warning if he's going to be late like this. And I just know that he's going to burst through that door and order me to do something ridiculous."

It was at that moment that the door was thrown open and John, whipping around from his little chat, saw Sherlock standing in the door way, carrying what looked like an old raincoat with something large inside it. Normally, John would have ignored it; Sherlock was always bringing home new objects to study and dissect, but this time John leapt to his feet and headed toward him, because rather than merely looking windswept and tired, Sherlock leaned against the doorway panting, holding the strange bundle and wearing a suit coat that was coated in blood and rain water.

John raked him up and down. The blood wasn't just on his jacket; it was on his hands, in his hair and mingling with the sweat on his neck. Streaks of the crimson liquid had traced lines down his pants and left spatter marks on his shoes.

As John stared, horrified, Sherlock let out another heaving breath, scratched his black curls and simply strolled in as though he had merely been out for a walk.

"Evening, John."

"Sherlock, what the hell-" but Sherlock had moved across the room and was striding past John into the kitchen. John watched in mingled disgust and fascination as the detective began shoving books, laundry and scalping equipment off the kitchen table, clearing a space for that strange-looking bundle wrapped in the raincoat. As he began to undo the buttons that that held whatever it was inside, he explained, " still don't have any leads yet, the flight was late, traffic was madness and I got," here he began to pull away the coat, "sidetracked."

Sherlock motioned for him to come closer, so John stepped from his place by the door into the kitchen. As he drew closer, he began to see the stains of blood seeping through the coats fabric. He began to get a little worried but still stepped forward and deliberately pulled away the jacket.

He wished at once that he hadn't. Because when John pulled away the rain coat, he was sure he had fallen into a nightmare.

Up next- Blood on the stairs

_In which there is stitching, Mrs. Hudson worries, and John must improvise._


	2. Blood on the Stairs

Blood on the stairs

_In which there is stitching, Mrs. Hudson worries, and John must improvise._

Beneath the rain coat was the body of a young woman. She was breathing, but barely, and her whole body was a mess of red beating marks and open wounds. As John looked closer, his stomach gave a nasty lurch. He realized that none of the blood on Sherlock was his own. It was hers, and she had lost a lot of it; it was matted in her hair and tracing rivets down her face. Huge cuts had soaked the blood through the coat, leaving dark ominous spots on the black fabric.

John slowly turned the girl over, grimacing as she flopped limply across the kitchen table. Not all the wounds appeared to be deep, but they were numerous and all over her. He could also see multiple bruises blooming over her arms and neck. He turned to Sherlock, who had shed the bloody jacket and had his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, rinsing the blood off his hands and neck in the kitchen sink.

"Sherlock, what… who the hell is that? What happened?"

"I told you, I got sidetracked."

"What did you do?"

"You think I did this?" Sherlock looked offended. "I wouldn't have brought her here if I had. Nor would I have brought her if I thought she was dead, which I knew she wasn't."

"Then what-"  
>"She was attacked." Sherlock ran some water through his hair and dried it off with a towel. "Two men had her cornered in an alley I was passing."<p>

"God, Sherlock, look at her! She needs medical attention!"  
>"Then thank God I know a good doctor."<p>

"Oh, shut up! That doesn't explain why she's here," John pointed out, as he checked the girl's pulse. "I don't see why you even bothered to try and stop them if it didn't benefit you. What's really going on?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then put on his most somber face. "John, I'm disappointed. You really think this is for my own gain?" He saw the answer in John's face, then let out another long sigh. "Fine, her situation intrigued me, and if I wanted to take her case, I had to make sure LeStrade and the others didn't know about it. They would just see it as your usual assault, put it on one of their pointless files, and that would be that. Besides, the wounds aren't life-threatening; I saw the attack, so I should know, and if I took her to a hospital, they'd stitch her up and then I'd be in an interrogation room for potentially attacking and raping a girl that I happened to find. Seems like a perfectly logical explanation if they only took in the fact that she's been beaten and I'm covered in her blood. Also the fact that I've got her wallet on me."

"You took her wallet?"

Sherlock took a small fabric wallet out of his pocket and opened it. "Her name's Lana Heart. She's 22 years old, not married, not seeing anyone either. She's from the US, been here…two weeks, and is staying at the St. James hotel near the Thames. She travels a lot, but doesn't visit family very much; they don't have a good relationship with her, the exception being her mother. She's the oldest of four and is currently a reporter for the Denver Sun. Now, can you fix her up? Some of those cuts look nasty."

John snapped to reality with these words; whenever Sherlock deduced something about anyone, he always marveled at his accuracy. With a curt nod, he went back to his room and grabbed his medical bag; a little 'souvenir' from Afghanistan. At one point, when he had first returned home, he had considered burning it, but when Sherlock came home with a knife wound down his right arm, he was glad he had kept it around. It was odd though; John had worked for years helping complete strangers, but he never imagined it would follow him all the way home.

When he came back to the kitchen, Sherlock was bending over the girl, staring intently into her pale features. Without looking up, he reported, "Two bad cuts on her face, one above the right cheek bone and one over the bridge of her nose. I'm surprised it hasn't been broken actually, with the strength they were hitting her with. Let's see, one cut on her neck, three on the back of the head- looks like that's where most of the blood's coming from- and two on her chest. One deep one above the hip, one on the right arm and minor scratches all along her back and back legs. Did I miss any? You're the doctor, so you should be the one to take a look."

As John stepped forward, Sherlock moved away from the makeshift operating table and headed for the stove. "I'm going to make some tea, you want some?"

John stared, appalled. "We've got a beaten girl lying on our kitchen table, covered in blood and bruises that you just asked me to stitch up, and you want to know if I want tea?"

Sherlock was filling the pot with water in the sink. "Is that a no, then?"

There was a slight pause, and John gave in. "Strong, two sugars."

With a grin, Sherlock turned back to the teapot. John could tell that Sherlock KNEW he'd say yes; he was maddeningly right about everything. An insult grew, and then died a bitter death on his tongue as he turned back to the body lying in front of him. Quickly, he pulled out disinfectant, needle, thread and anesthesia, and set to work. Sherlock watched with a mild interest as John numbed the woman's face, neck, hip and right arm before starting with the needle, disinfecting the cuts and stitching up the deeper ones. By the time he was done, Sherlock had the tea ready and sitting in a mug beside his elbow. John picked it up and looked at the clock. It was eight twenty, but it felt like he'd been up all night. He took a sip of tea, and let the heat and sugar shoot through his body.

Sherlock, holding his tea but not drinking any of it, stepped back over to the table and examined John's work. "Impressive," he commented. "It didn't take even an hour."

John ignored him and began washing off his tools in the sink, trying to shake off any nagging doubts. Meanwhile, Sherlock pulled out his phone and started to text, paying no attention to John or his patient.

It struck John as odd; how normal it had become. They had a woman lying badly beaten on their kitchen table, and the kitchen was covered in a layer of blood, and here they were, drinking tea (at least John was) and acting as though nothing of interest had happened that night.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "John, can you get my bag?"  
>"Where is it?"<br>"Across town in the 6th street alley between the Golden Dragon Chinese Take away and the Griffin Book Store."

John simply stared. "I take it that's where you found her?"  
>"Yes," said Sherlock, refocusing on the phone. "Problem? I need it rather badly; there are ten different blood samples I can't afford to lose and my favorite shirt in there. You know, the purple one with the black buttons?"<p>

John sighed, pushed off the counter and headed toward the door, pulling on his jacket as he went. He was about to open the door when Sherlock called out, "oh, and one more thing. Take Miss Heart's room key and stop at the St. James Hotel. She's going to want some fresh clothes when she wakes up. She's in room 431 and the case is probably black."

Sherlock tossed John the plastic key card, and the latter shoved it in his pocket before heading back toward the door. But once again, he was stopped; and this time, not by his friend.

"Dr. Watson? Sherlock? Are you two in there? I found blood on the stairs. What are you doing?"

The two fully grown men threw each other looks of horror as the landlady on the other side of the door began searching for her key to let herself into the flat. Neither of them wanted to think about Missus Hudson's reaction if she came in and found what appeared to be the corpse of a young woman lying on her good kitchen table. Frantically, Sherlock carried the girl over to the couch and covered her with the nearest blanket while John shouted through the door, "its fine, Missus Hudson. Nothing's wrong."

"Well, what's the blood on my stairs, then?"

John threw Sherlock a panicked look. His friend was trying to pile half the pillows in the flat on top of the woman without smothering her. Sherlock glanced up long enough to give him a look that said _improvise!_ John's mind raced wildly, trying to think of a way to stop missus Hudson from coming in while Sherlock continued to cover the woman, gave up and merely shoved her unconscious form under the sofa. Then, just as Missus Hudson seemed to have located her key into the flat, John had an inspiration.

"Sherlock cut himself with the kitchen knife, Missus Hudson, and he went downstairs to get a towel to clean the blood off. It's no problem, really. So sorry about the blood on your stairs; we can clean it if you want us to."

"Oh it's no trouble, dear, but good Heavens, Sherlock, are you alright? I was thinking you had brought something dead up here to study, but if you need anything, I can bring it up here for you…"

"Not to worry, Missus Hudson. Nothing to see up here, just some blood on the floor we'll mop up," Sherlock shouted, catching John with a wilting look.

"Why is it always ME with the injury?" he hissed.

John ignored him and chanced a glance back into the kitchen. It was true; there was blood to mop up, but perhaps a little more than _some. _There was blood on the floor, in the sink and on the table. Sherlock's Jacket and the woman's rain coat were both stained dark and were lying on the floor alongside the laundry that had been left there. This was going to take a while to clean up, and it was at that moment John realized that they didn't have anything to clean up this mess _with_. With a sigh, he began to open the door for a third time.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed, as he shoved one of the woman's hands back under the couch.

"I'm going downstairs to get a mop. We're going to have to clean the kitchen at some point unless you want it smelling like a slaughterhouse in there." John opened the door a crack and slid out, moving around the landlady still standing on the landing outside. "Can you show me where the mops are, Missus Hudson? We're going to need it to clean up the kitchen."  
>"Of course, dear, right this way." Missus Hudson led John back down the stairs and into the basement, saying as she went, "I don't mean to nag, John, but after two years of this, I still haven't gotten used to the explosions and such coming from the kitchen. Heaven knows, he'll blow us all up if he's not careful. And I do worry about him dear; thirty-four and not so much as a girl friend. You know, I had originally thought you two might be together-" John went beet red (why did everyone always think that?) "but I can see you two are just friends. Do take care of him, won't you?"<p>

"Well, here it is, dear. Leave it back here when you're done." Missus Hudson reached into the dusty broom cupboard and pulled out a rather ratty-looking mop. John took it from her and ran back up the stairs two at a time. He didn't bother to call for Sherlock- he was leaving again in a moment anyway- so he left the mop leaning against the couch, noticing as he did so that Sherlock had had the tact to pull the poor girl out from under the couch and rest her on the cushions still scattered on the sofa's surface. With a sigh John turned around and left the flat, closing the door and starting down the stairs. Something kept nagging at him, something he couldn't quite place.

Well, actually, he could place it. He had a strange girl in his flat, which happened to now be covered in that girl's blood, and Sherlock had brought this girl from out of nowhere, and John was supposed to act like this was normal? It wasn't as though he was asking for much; but a bit of notice would have been nice, because John wasn't exactly crazy about the idea of keeping what looked like a corpse in the flat. He could do with the eyeballs, the head, and once a collection of human hands in the freezer (True, he had put a stop to that particular form of experiment throwing the hands out, and Sherlock had been furious. He had delivered John the ultimate punishment that time; a three hour long concert on a deliberately out of tune violin played as loud as Sherlock could manage. Still, John had allowed the hands to stay for about three days before he got sick of looking at them every time he needed to get some ice.), but this was ridiculous. Some quiet, nagging doubts told him that this might be illegal, and John was in no mood to deal with potential jail time (again), but he decided to push it from his mind for now. Sherlock clearly had something in mind; he was clueless in some regards, but he was still the most brilliant man John had ever met, so even though there were about a million things that could go wrong, John Watson decided to trust his friend and let him take charge for a bit. _Things can only go so wrong, can't they?_ He thought as he locked the door behind him. But preferring not to think about what might and probably would go wrong in this whole fiasco, John pushed the thought from his head and hailed a taxi.

Up next- what went wrong

_In which John misses most of the action, Lana Heart becomes infuriated with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock begins to question himself._


	3. What Went Wrong

What went wrong

_In which John misses most of the action, Lana becomes infuriated with Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock begins to question himself_

The lamp very nearly took Sherlock's head off as it sailed across the room and crashed into the opposite wall. Luckily, he had been able to dive out of the way as it flew toward him and now he lay, his face pressed into the worn carpet, planning his next move. Meanwhile Lana continued her assault, hurling just about anything she could reach right at him. Her aim was deadly; a heavy book hit him square on the spine, and he impulsively caught his laptop as it clipped his head. How she could manage this aim and force when she had barely regained consciousness, Sherlock could only guess. He could feel the fury building though, blocking out any deductions. There were about ninety different insults he could have thrown at her- and in six different languages, at that- but when he opened his mouth to say something, he was forced to catch his riding crop before it snapped in two on the floor, and all that came out was a very pathetic, "You know, I liked you better when you were unconscious."

Lana's reply was to hurl the nearest book at him, which hit him on the back of the neck. Hard. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock chose to end this ridiculous fight and made his final move. He wished he could have avoided this, but they were wasting time, and she clearly wasn't going to cooperate with him while he had her cornered like an animal- especially since she clearly thought he was a rapist- so he reached into a nearby table drawer and pulled out the pistol within.

Lana's pistol.

She froze, holding her latest weapon- Sherlock's violin- above her head. Her eyes were wide, and he could see her fear reflected in them. Sherlock hadn't aimed at her, but held it as though examining a priceless piece of art. Still, the venom in his eyes was unmistakable.

"This pistol is lovely," he commented, his voice deadly calm. "Light, balanced, custom made, correct?"

Despite herself, she nodded, not taking her eyes off him.

"Well, to damage such a beautiful weapon would be such a crime, wouldn't it? Or worse, to kill its owner with their own weapon; it would be such an embarrassment. But, I don't want to see that happen, and I guarantee that you don't either. So," here he cocked the gun and aimed directly at Lana's chest, "Miss, you have two options. You can put my violin down and act civil like the lady I believe you to be, or I can shoot you through the heart. I can tell you now; I won't miss, nor will I hesitate. I've been told reliably that I don't have a heart multiple times." His eyes flashed emerald green, full of answers, analysis and cold, hard focus. They didn't waiver from Lana's hazel ones; the eyes that took in every last detail and analyzed it all in front of him.

Slowly but surely, Lana lowered the violin onto a nearby pillow, never taking her eyes off the green inferno. As soon as the violin was on the ground, however, she took two steps forward and lunged.

Don't even bother to ask Sherlock what happened, how he managed to let himself be tackled by a five-foot-two American. He'll just spout off some lies about being attacked by five armed men. With sledgehammers. I wouldn't ask Lana, either, because she's going to make everything seem as though Sherlock jumped her. Using a butcher knife. So I'd take my word for it instead and leave them to their little squabbles over who's the dirty liar.

Anyway, as Lana launched herself forward, she threw herself over the nearest chair and latched herself firmly to his front, punching and biting with all her strength. Sherlock was in no mood to be pushed around by this nuisance any longer, and honestly her biting hurt, so he switched tactics. Throwing aside the now-useless colt, Sherlock shook away his thoughts of hesitation and threw her off of him. He was a lot stronger than her, and the force of his shove forced them both back into the middle of the room. Both off-balance, they crashed to the floor, Sherlock pinning her down on carpet and studying his prey as soon as the hair was shaken from his eyes. Lana spit hair out of her mouth and glared right back.

"let me up."

"is this really the best you can do? I expected better after what I saw in the alley." He replied as he tightened his grip on her wrists. Lana responded by kicking her free leg to the back of his head, misjudging it and catching him in the back. Still, pain is pain, and as Sherlock seized up in reaction to the surprise attack, Lana fought to free her hands, using her fingernails has her interpretation of crowbars. Soon, however, Sherlock recovered, and, realizing that Lana was currently trying to pry his skin off, he shifted his position. Keeping her stomach pinned beneath his knees, adjusted his grip so her elbows couldn't bend and her scraping skills were useless. He admitted his fingers smarted rather painfully, but at least the fight seemed to be dying down. Lana seemed to be calming down bit, by bit, breathing hard and glaring like a caged animal. Sherlock had to admit he was impressed; this girl had been heavily sedated and was moving with reflexes to rival his. He didn't move until he felt her relax beneath him, and only then did he stand and offer her a hand up. The hand that grasped his felt tiny and small in his own, beating with life like a hummingbird. As soon as she was on her feet, Sherlock let go of her hand and headed over to the corner into which the Colt had skittered during the fight. He picked it up carefully and handed it back to her, giving her a meaningful look. Lana stared at him, not sure what to think, and almost in defeat, she sank down onto the couch.

At once, Sherlock straightened his jacket, gave her what looked like a smile, and walked into the kitchen. Lana blinked in surprise at the sudden change in the man. She had honestly never met anyone like him before. It was hard to believe that this was the same person who had brought her here, and then threatened her with her own pistol, and now seemed to be rummaging through the fridge as though nothing had happened, all in the space of a few minutes. In fact, less than four minutes ago, she had pulled herself from a dark and hazy world of pain, with everything disoriented and raw. Everything had been on fire, and yet she could not make any movement to stop the pain. Flashes of memory flew across her eyes; light and darkness, a single shot, and death coming down. And all the while a voice was calling through the haze; voices impossible to make out.

Her eyes had snapped open, and she had found herself staring up at the ceiling. She had been lying on the couch, supported by pillows on her back and neck, but she only had time to register the room and couch for a moment before the pain caught up with her. The fire was suddenly very real, and she convulsed on herself, gripping her head, which felt like it had exploded. Lana's hands knotted in her hair as she tried to fight the agony, but she was stopped by the grip of two long pale hands, which had seized her arms and pushed her back onto the pillows. "Careful," said the voice. "You've got at least fourteen stitches in your scalp, and they're quite fresh. I wouldn't want to tear those out."

Lana had turned toward him, taking in everything through a pain-crazed glance.

He was tall, skinny as a rod but filled out in the right places. His skin was smooth and looked pale and cold as ivory, but the warmth from his hands, leaking though her shirt, told her that he was indeed human. A mop of curly raven hair fell onto his high forehead and around his angular, handsome features. His jaw was well set, strong, and gave his face a quality that created patterns of shadows and light across his pale face. A sharp roman nose, high cheekbones and a small mouth curled in mild interest, as though he knew everything and just wanted to make sure he was right. Everything about him seemed relaxed, as though taking care of complete strangers was normal for him, and she would have thought that was true if she hadn't been looking at his eyes.

They were green as serpents, and twice as cunning. He stared at her with a depth so profound it made her feel exposed. It was as though this man could see everything about her, from her good qualities to her flaws to what she did in college, but what drove her crazy was the fact that he seemed to know how much she thought he knew. It was simultaneously amazing and terrifying.

But that was Sherlock.

He had released her as the pain in her head receded, and she had managed to sit up. The entire time, he had stared at her. It was unnerving; it seemed like he was simply bored and was using her for amusement. Instinctively Lana reached for her gun; she didn't know who this person thought he was, but she wanted answers and didn't want to seem completely under his control just because she had awoken from sedation only moments before. Which, I guess is a pretty good reason to assume that, but Lana wasn't going to let that on.

The gun had been taken from her.

Lana had spun around, hate boiling up from within her. Someone had taken her gun and she was going to make them pay. The man had refocused on her as she snapped toward him, looking up from a phone he had just pulled from his pocket, and now viewed her with an infuriating look that was a mixture of concern and amusement.

She chose her words carefully before she spoke.

"What have you done with my gun and wallet?"

(Ok, I lied; she didn't choose her words that carefully. But at least she got the point across without swearing.)

He had looked surprised, a fake smile playing around his lips. "Why are you assuming that I took your wallet and gun? How do you know that your previous attackers didn't take them from you?"

"Don't be smart with me," she had shot back. "I may have been attacked, but it's not like I can't remember things. They didn't search me, and now the wallet's gone. As for the gun, those two men wanted me dead- taking my ID and weapon wouldn't do them any good unless they wanted to be caught. So where are they? What have you done with them?"

The man had sat there, and, to Lana's fury, had begun to laugh. "I was right- you are clever. So bringing you all the way back here wasn't a complete waste of time; well done."

That was too much for Lana. She had lost control, seized the nearby lamp, and had thrown it with all the force she could muster at his arrogant face. He had dodged, and… now five minutes later, here they were.

….

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock leaned against the counter and rubbed his bruised neck. He cursed himself for this thoughtlessness- he should never have brought her here. It had been on a whim, but wouldn't it have been easier to track her down later? He should have left her in the alley and called for help, but his spur of the moment decision had brought him nothing but a broken lamp and a few bruises. Again, Sherlock had to ask himself what had changed his mind. It was true; he had considered leaving the girl behind in the alley. That moment when she was on the ground, fighting tooth and claw against her attackers, he had been planning his next move. He could see the pros and cons of his choices, whether he decided to leave her here or take her to a hospital. But something had changed…and he had thrown away those plans and carried the injured woman six blocks back to Baker Street. He had risked arrest, prosecution, and losing his bag to help someone he barely knew, and even Sherlock knew that wasn't normal for him. He prided in not being able to feel anything (except those rare occasions around John), but somehow this girl with a great arm and a terrible temper had swayed the great Sherlock Holmes to do something stupid.

Sherlock paused where he stood. There were only a few possible solutions, and he was denying most of them. No one, _no one, _knew about…her. And just because this girl was just as resourceful and good with a gun as her meant absolutely nothing. He couldn't let the past influence him.

Sherlock wouldn't allow it.

He pulled the kettle of water off the stove from where it had sat for the last few minutes and poured the hot liquid into a nearby cup. Then he added a teabag and brought it back into the sitting room. The woman was examining the broken lamp with a mild interest. As he entered the room, she spoke, not taking her eyes away from its bent shade and cracked body. "I'm not going to apologize for breaking it, but it seems like it can be fixed, aside from the crack. You can just straighten the shade."

Even if she didn't trust him, the least she could do was act civil.

"It's fine. I hated the lamp anyway." Sherlock replied, setting the tea down in front of her. She set down the lamp on the side table and watched it steep for a few moments before looking back up directly into his face. Green met hazel and there was a strained silence. Finally, she broke the tension.

"Where am I?"

"You're at my flat. I figured you'd prefer this place to a hospital or an alley."

"So I'm guessing either you or your flat mate's a doctor, considering I haven't bled to death."

"Correct. Your eye for detail is excellent."

"I'll take that as a compliment and just go back to the questions. I doubt you'll tell me the truth, but who are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me, yes." she replied.

Sherlock saw no point in lying. "The name's Sherlock Holmes. Lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss Heart, especially since you're no longer trying to tear apart my flat. But please, Sherlock."

"Don't call me Miss Heart. It sounds like my mother. Call me Lana. Now, as I was about to ask before you rudely opened your mouth to state the obvious, how long was I out?"

"About two and a half hours. The stitching didn't take long, but your body seemed to take the anesthesia harder then I had originally expected and you stayed under due to exhaustion. Next question?"

"Why am I here?"

"You needed help."

"And a hospital couldn't have given me help?"

Sherlock paused. He was hoping he wouldn't have to bring up the case already, but he doubted Lana would drop the subject unless he answered, and he certainly wasn't going to lie to her at this point. So after a two second pause (you better believe he counted) Sherlock took a deep breath. "Lana, three nights ago, a man by the name of Mike Heart was brutally murdered in his home. He was the tenth of a string of serial murder cases, all of whom were marked with this." He threw down a picture in front of her. When she examined it, Lana saw that it showed nothing but a large eye painted in what looked like lipstick. She looked up.

"So?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "I know he was your father, Lana, and I need information to find out why he was killed. Scotland Yard is no help; they're refusing to believe that this is a serial killer. So when I happened to overhear your conversation, I realized that you were the link I needed. You have something I desperately need, and if I took you to the hospital they would have taken unnecessary precautions. That's why you're here."

Lana watched him, surprise etched across her face. "Who are you, really?"  
>"I've already told you, Sherlock Holmes."<p>

"And this is what you do all day? Chase serial killers?"

Sherlock shrugged. "On a good day."

Lana smiled. "Sounds exciting."

"When I'm not bored," he replied. "Anyway, my flat mate should be here soon. Just so you know, if he finds out I'm using you, he's probably going to make you leave."

Her grin widened. "So if I lie to your flat mate, do I get the couch?"

"All yours," said Sherlock. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to come up with a good lie so that he doesn't get suspicious. I can't just keep you here; it's not like me at all."

"Well," Lana replied, "there are a couple options, but it will depend on whether or not…um…"

"What?" Sherlock prompted.

Lana looked up, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. "Are you gay?"  
>Sherlock looked surprised. He hadn't expected this question to come up already. "Not that it's any of your business, but I suppose you could say I'm married to my work. Why?"<p>

Lana grinned wickedly. "Ok, then. This should work. And we'd better hurry; your flat mate is coming up the stairs."

Up next- The Conversation and the Kiss- _in which John is lost, Sherlock lies and Lana makes her flat mates dinner._


	4. The Conversation and the Kiss

The Conversation and the Kiss

_In which John is surprised, Sherlock must lie and Lana makes dinner for her new flat mates_

John heaved the bags up the stairs with some difficulty; they were both a lot heavier than he thought they would be. Sherlock's bag was worse though; John struggled with the weight balanced on his shoulder as he worked his way up the narrow steps, still dragging the woman's suitcase behind him. It jarred up the stairs, sending vibrations up and down his arm. John swore; he could understand that Sherlock needed his bag, but the fact that he had to go on a suitcase hunt through the hotel had been madness. John couldn't see why he couldn't have stopped at the nearest store, picked some random clothes off the shelf and brought them back to Baker Street. (Well, that's not entirely true. John had indeed considered stopping at a nearby department store, but after looking at the prices, he decided against it.) The nagging doubts in John's head had returned, and as he struggled up the stairs still dragging the case, he began to wonder why Sherlock had wanted him to bring back the entire case unless… no, that was ridiculous. There was no way she was going to stay here. After all, why would Sherlock want a girl staying here anyway? It was all very confusing, so John tightened his grip on Lana's plain black case and kept heaving his load up the stairs, cursing them with every step he took. Once he got upstairs, he could ask Sherlock what their next move would be, and could make sure the girl was all right. Finally, after much effort and a stubbed toe, along with a strange vibrating in his left arm, John reached the landing. He fumbled for his keys, then shoved the rusty thing into the lock and turned. Using his good shoulder, he heaved the door open, pushed his way into the room, and that's how he found Sherlock Holmes and Lana Heart making out on the sofa.

….

Two minutes earlier

Lana and Sherlock sat for a moment, listening to John struggling his way up the stairs. From the sound of it, it seems like he had dropped one of the bags and it was sliding back down the steps.

Sherlock turned to face her. "I don't suppose you had anything breakable in there?"

She grimaced. "Three laptops, two good cameras and a Ming vase. You?"

"Blood samples. Lots and lots of blood samples."

She laughed. John kept banging up the steps and Sherlock threw her a glance. "You said you had a plan."

"Oh, right, do you trust me?"  
>Sherlock gaped at her. "Of course not."<p>

"Good. I don't trust you either, and this is probably going to make you want to kick me out, but I know you want the information more than an ally, so please, for the love of God, just go with it."

Sherlock paused at the end of this little speech, almost afraid to respond because he knew to do so would mean that he was playing right into her hands. The strangest sense of déjà-vu swept over him as he searched her face for an inkling of what Lana was planning. It was the edge of the unknown, and Sherlock was poised on the edge, looking down into the blackness of swirling possibility.

Outside, John had nearly reached the landing.

So Sherlock leapt.

"What did you have in mind?"

Lana grinned, and then pulled him down on top of her, pressing her lips against his.

It was Sherlock's first kiss in at least ten years, and so he reacted as any emotionally twelve-year-old boy would; he retracted.

"What was that about?" he hissed, pushing himself off her.

"I said I had plan," she replied. "I never said it was a good one."

"So THIS was your great idea? Putting your mouth all over me?"

She shrugged. "It was either that or have it seem like you were keeping me as a hostage of some kind. I'm sorry I didn't have time to come up with something better. I didn't hear YOU coming up with any ideas."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "I see where you're going with this. Well, it's a plan, but just so you know, I think this is ridiculous. And you're not my type anyway." And as the door opened, he got onto the couch and put his mouth back on hers.

….

There was a moment when it seemed like everything in the world had frozen, as John Watson walked into his flat and found his friend kissing a girl. He simply stood there, in a daze, and they stayed where they were, as though they had gone deaf and hadn't heard him enter the room. Slowly, John took it all in, blinking furiously to make sure he wasn't imagining it. Sherlock was on top of her, carefully holding his weight above her so as not to crush her beneath his long, lanky form. Lana had him by the shoulders, but suddenly she opened her eyes and saw a very shocked and confused John Watson standing in the doorway. Immediately, she released Sherlock and sat up. He, too, snapped upward and came face to face with his good friend, who had dropped both bags with hard thumps onto the floor. Sherlock immediately leapt forward and grabbed his bag from the floor. He at once began to rifle through it until he came across a large case deep within the bag. After inspecting it, he straightened up and addressed John.

"Really, John, I told you I had the blood samples in here. Did you have to try and break them? Thank goodness you failed though; without them all of my research up until this point would have been pointless."

"But, Sherlock-"

"Ah, I see you retrieved Miss Heart's belongings. Lana, if you'd like to change, there's a bathroom up the stairs."

Lana, who was startled at being brought into the conversation, nodded curtly and reached into her own bag, from which she pulled out a clean shirt and a pair of black pants. With these under her arm, she walked past John as though he wasn't there and disappeared up the steps. As her footsteps fell away into silence, Sherlock moved toward his room, dragging his bag behind him. "Sorry, I couldn't make a start on the kitchen. It seemed to involve manual labor, and I got bored fairly quickly, so I-"

"So you what?" John snapped, shutting the door behind him with a bang, "decided to start snogging her? Sherlock, who the hell IS she? What's going on? And why did you want her to stay here?"

Sherlock, who was still in his room, shouted from down the hall. "Hungry? We can get take away, or I can make something."

"Are you even listening to me?" John started toward his friend's room, but Sherlock beat him to it, stepping out of the room and closing the door with a snap. He found himself staring down into his friends set face. Even though John was several inches shorter, he held his ground against Sherlock, glaring up into his face.

Sherlock looked exhausted. "What do you want, John? I need to put the blood in the fridge or it's going to spoil."

"I want an answer!" John cried, turning away and walking back to stand in the living room. "Look, it may not seem like that big a deal to you, but I live here, too. And if you're going to start having complete strangers staying here-"

"I invited you to stay here." Sherlock pointed out, as he headed for the blood stained kitchen.

"yes, because you needed someone to pay the bills. This is different; what aren't you telling me here? You come home with a complete stranger that you seem to have no past with at all, and then I leave for an hour and come back to find you on top of her!"

"In all fairness, it was her idea," Sherlock pointed out, which wasn't a complete lie but he wasn't going to tell John the rest of the story yet.

John gaped at him. "Wait, what? Who is she? At least tell me that."

"She's Lana Heart. She's an American in her twenties who's in Europe on a job. What's the cause for all the fuss, John? You're overreacting, and it's really very unflattering and annoying."

Oh, shut up, Sherlock!" John yelled. "are you expecting me believe that you just found a girl tonight, and within a space of two hours, fell hopelessly in love with her?"  
>"Stranger things have happened," Sherlock pointed out as he stuck his head in the freezer.<p>

John took a calming breath, trying to refrain from jumping over the couch and strangling his friend. In the end, there was only one answer he needed right now, the one that would explain what was really going on.

"Sherlock," he asked, "is she your girlfriend?"

Sherlock, his head still in the freezer, didn't reply immediately. The detective was resting his head on the set of blood samples he had just finished placing, wishing with all his might that he didn't have to deliver his next answer. To anyone else, he would have delivered it without flinching. But this wasn't anyone else; it was John. The quiet, nagging doubts in his head were back, the ones that took on the voice of his mother, his brother and even Missus Hudson. Angrily, he pushed them away and retracted from the freezing icebox. He gave himself the time it took to close the door to compose himself before speaking. John stared expectantly.

"Yes, John, she's my girlfriend. I didn't want to say anything, but after tonight, I suppose I don't have any choice." Sherlock hated the taste of the lie; it was like bitter pecans on his tongue.

"Oh," said John, clearly caught by surprise. "Well… yeah… this is new. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because," said Sherlock. "I didn't think it was something to bother you with. Besides, you, along with plenty of other people don't think I have a heart, so I figured I would bring it around bit by bit, but when I found out she was being attacked, I stepped in. There are some very dangerous people after her, and so I moved her here merely as precaution. Don't worry, it's not like she's going to stay in the flat forever. She can take the basement flat once she talks to Missus Hudson. And don't look at me like that!" Sherlock seized John by the shoulders, his face full of (fake) pleading. "Please, John! It's only temporary, and then this will all be over."

John stared into Sherlock's earnest expression. He had never seen him act like this; it was odd, but Sherlock clearly cared about this more than he could explain, unless Sherlock was lying through his teeth. On the other hand, John couldn't really see if there was anything Sherlock had to gain, and so, despite his doubts, John once again let his friend take charge.

"How long will she be staying here?"

"Just until the danger passes, and then she can find her own flat somewhere. Like I said, it's only a precaution. Whoever committed that murder in Nice has some sort of connection to her and they want her dead."

"How do you know that?"

"Those two men who attacked her in the alley are hired assassins known as _Les Assassiners._ They both posses great strength and brutality, their primary form of attack is by beating their victims to death with their bare hands and specially made brass knuckles. Very messy and not always effective, but these men are specialists; it's almost impossible to trace. I've been keeping an eye on them for years."  
>"But why go after an American journalist who happened to be in London?"<p>

"She was charged with taking the case," said Sherlock, pulling out his phone and beginning to text. "I lied; she's been here longer than two weeks. She hasn't told me for sure how long she'll be here, but I know she's been here around a month and a half."

"And that's how long you've known her?" asked John, heading back into the living room to retrieve the mop.

"Yes," said Sherlock, praying that John couldn't see his pupils dilating as he spat out the lies.

John still looked slightly suspicious as he began to fill a bucket in the sink. "How did you meet her?"  
>Sherlock's mind raced wildly; he didn't have any idea how most couples met. So he chose to go with what he knew. "She was investigating a potential murder victim at the morgue when I was there and she seemed…nice."<p>

Even to Sherlock the answer sounded lame. The failure of the lie made him turn pink. Secretly, he hoped that John would see right through him and throw Lana out, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. He would just have to power through it-at least until the case was over- because he could tell John was being either too stupid or too ignorant see through the lie. Sherlock looked over at John, who had put the bucket on the floor and was proceeding to wipe away the stains all over the kitchen table left over from the makeshift surgery. Sherlock half hoped John would give him the look that meant he knew Sherlock was lying, but instead, John was staring at him with a look of surprise and…almost pleasure.

Sherlock knew he had bought it.

"Well," said John, "I'm surprised, and honestly, I'm happy for you. I guess you just…caught me off guard a little. Just…if you were going to bring her over anyway, I wish you would have let me know first so I don't, you know, interrupt you or anything…" he looked almost ashamed. Sherlock was shocked.

"What? No! I mean its fine. Just drop it, John. Don't worry about it. Do you still want dinner? I can order something in."

"I can cook something."

Both men turned, slightly surprised, as Lana stepped into the room, wearing a pair of fresh clothes. Her hair was shiny and pulled back with a clasp, and she was smiling with the look of someone who had walked in on something private.

John was first to speak. "Oh, no, that's not necessary, Miss Heart."

"Please, call me Lana. And it's no trouble at all. What do you want to eat? I can make some pasta if you've got any." Without pausing for an answer, she began to go through the pantry, rifling through the meager items within. Suddenly she retracted, her face turning from one of bemused focus to absolute shock. Lana turned back to John, who had returned to mopping her blood off the floors.

"What's wrong?" he asked, staring at her panicked expression.  
>Sherlock, who had been texting throughout this entire little episode, looked up. Lana took a deep breath and finally found words to explain whatever it was that had sent her reeling.<p>

"There's a LEG in there. A human leg! What-what is this?"

"It's an experiment," John and Sherlock both replied.

Lana blinked several times, and looked like she was going to faint again, but she held her ground. These two men clearly knew something she didn't, and so she responded with a calm, if not forced, "Sherlock, can you get the pasta from the shelf? I'm a little short to reach them."

Sherlock sent her a glowering look from behind John's back, then forced a smile and stepped toward her, heading for the pantry. Lana stood aside and allowed him to grab the box of sad-looking pasta from its place in the corner. "I'm seriously considering just throwing you out now," he growled under his breath.

"You wouldn't dare," she hissed back. "You need me too badly."  
>Sherlock fixed her with his nastiest glare as he pulled out a pot and began to fill it in the sink. "All right, it's official. I hate you."<p>

"Love you too, sweetheart," Lana replied, as she reached into the fridge and pulled out the tomatoes.

Up next- Dishes

_In which there is laundry, Lana takes a fall and John makes a strange discovery._


	5. Dishes

Dishes

_In which there are bubbles, Lana explains and Sherlock discovers a burglar_

Lana dunked the plates into the dishwater and added soap, letting the dinner dishes soak as she cleaned off the table. Even through the trace smells of basil and Clorox, the scent of blood was still underneath. Lana grimaced; it was unnerving that the only reason the kitchen smelled like a butcher shop was because she was too stupid to defend herself. She hoped that John and Sherlock didn't notice.

"It smells like a slaughterhouse in here," Sherlock commented as he strolled into the kitchen with his computer.

Lana begged for the patience not to kill him. Slowly, she put on a forced smile. "Oh, it's not that bad. It's probably from the leg in the pantry or the blood samples anyway."

"No, I'm fairly sure it's from you," Sherlock pointed out as he opened the fridge. "I don't recall the leg or the blood samples leaving stains all over the floor."

Lana gritted her teeth. They had only known each other about four hours and already he was getting on her nerves. "Well, if you don't like it, grab some bleach and get rid of the smell yourself."

She hated that she had lost her temper. Avoiding his eye, Lana went back to the sink and started scrubbing the leftover pasta sauce off the soapy dishes. She could tell he was smiling smugly and purposefully kept her back to him.

"Here, let me," said John, as he stepped forward and took the sponge from her. "After all, you did the cooking."

"It's no trouble, I'm glad you liked it." Lana grabbed a dishrag and started to dry as John cleaned. Sherlock hadn't moved, still sitting at his laptop, typing away at something not worth Lana's concern. It seemed fitting, she supposed, considering that he hadn't eaten anything, so of course he would sit there like a lazy sack and surf the net. At the same time, though, this felt natural. The dishes clinked, the tap dripped, and for a moment, Lana felt at peace, as though staying in a random flat with two strange men was perfectly normal.

"So," said Sherlock, from his post at the table (where he was doing absolutely nothing), "what do you know about Mike Pere?"

Lana almost dropped the plate she had been drying. She didn't expect to bring up the topic this soon, but this clearly wasn't a man who really knew the definition of the word tact, so she tried to appear unfazed and handed the plate back to John. She leaned against the counter, twisting the dishrag around her hand so her hands wouldn't start shaking. At least he was keeping her connection to Mike a secret, but merely changing his last name didn't change who he was to her. It hadn't very clever either; switching his last name with the French word for father- what was that about? This felt like a test; how well she could think on her feet and still give him the information. It was up to her to keep their charade up. She knotted the dishrag tighter. "What do you want to know?" she asked, staring at the floor.

"Why was he in France? Did he have any relations to gangs or underworld figures? And why would a gentleman such as himself be violently murdered in a long line of seemingly random serial killings? I need a lead to move forward. I know there's a connection, but none make sense so far. I need data, anything you can find for me." Sherlock was focusing in on her; she could feel his icy stare as he sat, waiting for her answers. Lana took a deep breath. She would tell the truth; at least as much as could be told without revealing Pere's true identity.

"I used to work for Pere, before I went to Denver. He was a ruthless boss, but he knew what he was doing; under him, the company's income peaked. I still had my doubts about him though, but I played the normal employee, moving upward until I became a public relations secretary for the board of directors. I didn't have direct access to them, but I had a list of their schedules and such to make sure they kept in touch with the outside world. I only ever spoke to Pere on a regular basis. I would help plan his meetings and such, and he wrote me a letter of recommendation to transfer to another company once I completed my time working for him, if I still wanted to.

"Well, I was working late one night, and I overheard Pere and another director having a fight over the phone. They were yelling about some sort of deal and how it had gone sour. I remember that all I got out of it was that the company had lost money; a lot of money. The next day, we crashed. Turns out we were bankrupt. We had lost a huge amount of money in what sounded like a gamble. Nobody knew all the details, and so a rumor started."

"Oh, this ought to be good," Sherlock muttered.

"Some people started saying that our board of directors had lost the company in an actual gamble. A muti-million dollar gamble that put everything on the line."

"A gamble with who?" asked Sherlock, leaning forward in his chair still further.

"That's just it; I don't know. Most people brushed it off, because the rumor seemed ridiculous. And you know how people talk when they're angry; they'll say whatever they want to get sympathy. But others took hold of it, and it went from a rumor to an idea. Talk began to spread about getting more information out of the Directors, but when the time came for us to demand answers, every single Director simply vanished overnight."

John looked up from the last of the dishes, up to his elbows in bubbles. "What do you mean, vanished?"

"I mean that twelve people simply seemed to disappear. No warning to anyone, from the sound of it, because I got a call from Pere's wife asking why he hadn't come home that night. I replied that I thought he had taken a sick day because he hadn't come in for work. After a little digging, I discovered that the situation was the same for all of the Directors. They had simply hung all of us out to dry. There were three thousand of us working for them, and now all of us were unemployed. They hadn't left any explanation as to what should happen now, and so with no one in charge, the company started to crumble.

"I was lucky; I managed to get out before things got too bad. On a whim though, right before I applied for a job at the sun, I went through and cleared out Pere's office for any clues that could point to what might have happened. All I found was a note; there were no other papers in the office to be found."  
>"Do you have it with you?" Sherlock was practically bouncing up and down in his seat. Lana had to laugh; he looked like an overexcited child on Christmas, only this was a man in his early thirties, grabbing for evidence in a serial murder spree.<p>

"Keep your shirt on; I'm getting to that. Anyway, we all stuck around and tried to build up the company that had fallen to ruin. And then, a week later, twelve men simply walked into the building and strolled into the Director's office. They started taking business back to the top from day one, but by then, I had had enough. I quit the next day, and cut off any ties I could to the company and Seattle that I could. It broke my heart to leave my mom though. She was having a hard time because of her divorce from my dad. I had helped her out, but I needed to get out, so I left Seattle behind and moved to Denver. Once I moved there, I got an apartment and started working for the paper in the area; the Denver Sun. About a month into my job, I was assigned the crime stories, and so I began traveling first around the city, then the state, the country and finally into Europe."  
>"How long ago was this?" asked John as he stacked the last plate in the cabinet.<p>

"about two years ago."

John nodded and then reached back into the cabinet. "do you want some coffee?"

"Oh, shut up, John" said Sherlock, and turning back to Lana. "Didn't you have a story to finish?"

Lana looked down. The dishrag she had been twisting in her hands was wound around her wrist. She blew back a stray hair that had fallen in front of his face. "There's not much left to tell. About two months ago, I got an assignment to head for France. A group known as _Les Assasiners _was active again, and they wanted me to go in and write a piece. Seemed like a usual situation, so I went in. I did a little digging, and then I found out who their most recent victim was. I had to be sure, and so I went to the morgue…and …"

Lana fell silent, her hands completely wrapped in the dishrag. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. John stepped forward, his hands still smelling of soap, and gently undid the knotted cloth. "I'm sorry," he said. "You shouldn't have to talk about it now. And CERATIN PEOPLE shouldn't be forcing you to talk about it."

"What?" said Sherlock, looking appalled? "I didn't do anything. "

John rolled his eyes, and Lana cracked a smile. Sherlock looked up, surprised. He couldn't help but notice how her face lit up when she smiled. Quickly, he forced himself to look back at his computer.

"So," said Sherlock, still typing away, "huge business collapse, disappearing CEO's and one turns up dead in Nice. Why?"

"If I knew the answer, I wouldn't be here and neither would you." Lana pointed out.

John privately smiled. These two were blunt, rude and cunning.

They were perfect for each other.

"Well, "said John, rising from off the counter and stretching. "this has been interesting, but I'm exhausted and I have work in the morning, so I'll…leave you to it."

"What? Now? But there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock cried as John headed for the door.

"Good night, Dr. Watson," said Lana, not looking up. The dark haired young woman was staring out of the window.

"Please, John."

He left.

"Well," said Sherlock. "It's twelve at night, and I have some samples to test. Feel free to take the couch if you're tired."

"Oh, no," said Lana, pulling up a chair with a loud scrape. "I'm not going to lose this chance to do something useful."

"You're already useful."

"As information. Nothing more and I want to do more. So tell me what needs to be done." She looked up at him, waiting for instructions. "Come on, I'm not just good for getting beat up."

"Really? Never would have guessed that," said Sherlock, not looking at her.

Lana could have kicked him. She stared at his lanky form, trying to decide what she could use to hit him with and still cause maximum damage.

"Shut up," said Sherlock.

"What?" Lana snapped out of her violent thoughts.

"Your thinking is driving me mad."

Her mouth fell open. "Oh, you can't be serious."

"Completely."

Lana blew her hair out of her eyes and took the seat across from him. He looked up, seeming surprised. "I take it you're going to try and do more than stain my floor, take my couch space and play with my face?"

"I made you dinner," she pointed out.

"Digestion slows me down."

"So does starvation. Everybody has to eat something."

"Eating is boring," Sherlock replied as he pulled the frozen blood from the fridge and grabbed some vials from the counter. Lana watched in interest as he began to carefully measure out the blood and mix chemicals on the kitchen table. She tried not to look impressed, but that was impossible; Sherlock's defined movements and focus told her she was dealing with a master. If her friends could see her now. They would all be impressed that she now had what looked like a boyfriend who was brilliant, strong and handsome- at least until he opened his mouth. Lana watched Sherlock's jaw lock in concentration as he measured out one of the samples and poured the crimson liquid into a clean test tube. She definitely admired his nerve, if not his manners and complete lack of tact. Sherlock certainly seemed to be someone you could trust if he was willing to work with you a little. Lana rested her head on her hands, feeling the smooth wood beneath her fingers as she watched Sherlock work. He hadn't commented on her thought process yet, so she let her mind wander as he measured out powder and entered data on his laptop. Then, as quickly as he had begun, Sherlock stopped up each of the test tubes, lined them up on a rack and set them on the counter. Only then did he look up at her.

"Well, I'm going to bed. There're some spare sheets in the linen closet if you want some."

"Wait," said Lana, blinking in confusion. "That's it?"

"I have to let these sit out overnight," said Sherlock, as he put the remaining blood back in the fridge. "For now, I'm going to think about this problem a bit more."

"I thought you were going to get some sleep."

"Only normal people need sleep," Sherlock replied, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small box.

Lana raised her eyebrows. "Nicotine patches?"

"Helps me think," he replied, pulling out two and replacing the container. "I need to give this some thought tonight." Suddenly, he turned back toward her. His expression had shifted from one of relaxation to one of….could it be gratitude? No, he couldn't feel gratitude as far as Lana knew. This seemed more like… slight respect.

"Thank you for the information. You've been very helpful."

Lana's cheeks flushed. "Um, you're welcome. But really, I should be thanking you. After all, you saved me."

Sherlock raised his thin eyebrows.

"No, really," she pressed. "If you hadn't done that, I'd probably be dead."

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I needed information, and you provided it."

Lana rolled her eyes good naturedly, and brushed past him on her way to couch, noticing, against her will, how solid he felt, if not extremely skinny. She shook her head, and continued toward the couch until she was stopped by Sherlock's arm.

"What?" said Lana, confused? "What's the big deal? I thought you couldn't stand me. Remember, we're not actually dating, so I'd prefer if we kept physical contact to a-"

"Shut up," he said.

Lana was appalled. "Don't you tell me to shut up, you-"  
>"No, seriously! Shut up."Sherlock pressed his hand over her mouth and motioned downward. Lana looked at the floorboards, trying to hear something that would let her know what was going on. And then she heard it.<p>

It was the load, groaning snap of someone stepping on a loose board. Her eyes widened, and she looked back at Sherlock, who nodded gravely. He removed his hand from her mouth, and it took her a moment to speak.

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, rubbing his hand together in anticipation. "We've got a burglar. Now, where's my pistol?"

He swept from the room, leaving Lana to almost laugh in surprise.

She was definitely sharing a flat with the most bizarrely interesting man she had ever met.

Lana grabbed her pistol, with a grim smile.

This was going to be fun.

_Up next- The Calling Card_

_In which Lana takes a fall, John makes a strange discovery, and the group is summoned. _


	6. The Calling Card

The Calling Card

_In which Lana takes a fall, John makes an interesting discovery, and the group is summoned._

He was ready.

Picking the lock had been child's play. He had been trained by the best of the best in their business, and the lock was old anyway. He had entered almost silently. It was nearly two in the morning, and the streets were empty; no had seen him enter. No one within had heard the door snap shut.

But whether they had heard him was irrelevant.

No one was going to stop him. He would see to that.

His employer had told him what to do; break in, leave a message and kill any who got in his way. There was only one within who had to survive; the great Sherlock Holmes.

But the others were his to murder.

He couldn't wait.

So far, all had gone as planned. His only mistake had been the board. The low groaning creak had echoed through the flat as he entered, and the sound had drowned out his swearing as he advanced further. As an assassin for Viper, he had been trained to avoid all detection; a mistake such as that could have cost him greatly. He had paused, silent, but when no one had come to stop him, he moved farther into the flat. Looking in front of him, he saw he had two options; two sets of stairs were before him, one going up, and one heading down into the basement apartments.

Turning down farther into the hall, the Viper's most powerful assassin slipped down the stairs into the darkness.

The lower flat was dank, echoing his footsteps off the walls as he began to comb through the rooms. 221 C was silent, dark and empty, and he cursed again, tightening his hold on his weapon, a Sig Sauer p226. He had earned this weapon; after all, he had killed his master for it. The pistol was now clenched in his fist as he turned and left the flat. It had been a miscalculation; he had chosen wrong and searched the abandoned apartment. He hated that he had made this error; it had cost him valuable time.

An assassin must have the gift of ultimate patience, so, with a deep breath, he calmed himself and smiled coolly. There was no hurry; he still had hours before daylight, and plenty of time to kill the landlady and the detective's partner. The pistol left ridges in his palm as he relaxed his grip and started toward the stairs, the thought of his victims buoying his steps all the way down the hall.

It was then he heard movement.

He was on the stairs, one foot still on the floor, the p226 hanging from his fingers. The sound had been subtle, a faint creak high above him, but it was enough to make his eyes alight with excitement. A twisted grin stretched across his face.

They were trapped above him.

He began to climb higher, focusing on the ceiling above him, listening intently. Now he could hear footsteps, whispers, and hurried silence. He laughed. They were all together. It would be a pleasure to let Holmes watch as Viper shot his companions.

He was on the landing.

It was time.

The assassin almost ran to the stairs, looking upward at the door above. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just a plain black door. How odd it was that his employer's greatest enemy lived in a place so normal. But he stopped his musings; now was not the time to question, it was time to kill.

He took one more step, and the door above was thrown open.

The momentary flash surprised him. He froze, halfway up the stairs, staring up at the light and huge shadow spilling out of the doorway, onto the stairs, onto him…

He took a moment to blink and tried to refocus, sure he was imagining it.

It was his second and biggest mistake of the night.

In that moment that he closed his eyes, he was hit with 109 pounds of flesh, muscles and bone. They collided and slid down the steps, a mass of hair, fabric and curse words.

Meanwhile, John and Sherlock stood on the landing, looking in shock at the chaos below. Then they cocked the pistol and jumped down to help.

It was 2 in the morning, when most sensible people would be asleep, dreaming about the next day, the next pay check, the next bill. But this was Sherlock's house, and nothing was ever completely normal.

Welcome to Baker Street.

….

Three minutes earlier

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, rubbing his hand together in anticipation. "We've got a burglar. Now, where's my pistol?"

As Sherlock left the room, Lana almost laughed. He was so bizarre, it amazed her. As she followed Sherlock from the kitchen, she wondered if this was what his life was like all the time.

Suddenly, her life of chasing criminals seemed unbelievably dull.

Lana reached into the side table and pulled out her Colt. It was her pride and joy, a custom black Colt Defender, a gift from her mother. She held it tight and felt the rush she got every time she was near it; in control and ready for anything.

"It really is lovely," said Sherlock, as he looked under the couch for his missing pistol, "but do you think you could go get John? He sleeps like the dead and I need him to tell me where he's hidden my gun."

Lana smiled in spite of herself and carefully picked her way across the floor, being careful not to make any sound. She reached the landing and flew up the stairs to John's room, but just as she went to open the door, John stepped out, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and sweats. In his hand he held a Glock 19, and his eyes were wild. _Slept like the dead, yeah right_, thought Lana

"What's going on?"

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "There's a burglar in the basement." She looked intently into his eyes, which were slowly draining of their panic and confusion and returning to their firm and focused brown. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine." He said. "Come on, let's go. I'm guessing Sherlock lost his gun in the flat somewhere?"

Lana nodded, but she didn't think John saw her as they silently picked their way down the stairs into the flat.

When they got back, Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking through the cabinets. He looked like he was ready to destroy something. "I can't find it anywhere!" he swore. "And he's going to get away."

As Lana and John watched, Sherlock threw himself onto the ground and looked under the sink. He rummaged around for a moment, before his face lit up like the kitchen lights above them. "Ah! Here it is!"

Lana's jaw dropped as Sherlock sat up and held up his prize; a Browning L9A1. She looked over at John, expecting an explanation, but to her surprise, John's mouth was just as open as hers.

"Um, Sherlock?" John asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Yes?" said Sherlock as he cocked the pistol.

"Why- how long has there been a gun under the sink?" John wasn't surprised there was a gun in the kitchen- or even that the gun in question was under the sink. What surprised him the most was that he had gotten things out from under the sink countless times, and never once had there been any evidence it was there.

"Since…three days ago I believe, when I lost it," Sherlock replied, adjusting his grip and getting to his feet. "Waiting on you two. We've got a housebreaker to catch."

Lana looked at John, who was shaking his head, almost in defeat.

"Is he always like this?"  
>John smiled. "You get used to it."<p>

"Have you?"

"Not even close."

She laughed and went to catch up with Sherlock. He was crouching by the door, listening carefully. "He's on the stairs. On his way up, and I'm guessing he knows we know he's here."  
>"So what do we do?" she asked, reaching into her suitcase and pulling out a handful of ammo.<p>

He stared at her. "Where did you get that?"

She pulled away the suitcase cover to reveal the Ming vase, stuffed with ammunition. Sherlock nodded appreciatively. John stared, appalled.

"You're as bad as he is,"

Sherlock hushed them all with a quick gesture, and they all crouched by the stairs, waiting for the house breaker to move. Then Sherlock threw the door open.

The light spilled onto the stairs, revealing the small landing beyond and the dark figure crouched catlike on the stairs.

He was compact, but well-built, with skin a purple black that shone like oil in the light from kitchen, he looked like a moving shadow. His eyes were black as a starless night, and in his large hand, he clutched a small, powerful-looking pistol. His agile form was coiled like a spring and looking up at them in surprise. For a moment he hesitated, and then Lana struck. Jumping forward, she threw herself at the assassin, knocking both of them down the stairs onto the lower landing.

The stairs were steep and sharp on her sides as they wrestled and grappled against each other down the flight of steps. Lana felt the deep gash in her hip tear open again and winced in pain, knowing there was already blood soaking her pants as they fell to the floor below with a bang. Spitting hair out of her mouth, Lana threw her weight back down on her attacker's chest, trying to pry the pistol from his steel grip. He twisted and spat in her face, but she clung on, scratching at him and kicking him with every ounce of strength she had left in her.

Sherlock and John stared, lost for words, as Lana's victim wriggled free of her grip and found himself pressed against the stair way. A shot from Sherlock's Browning was enough to convince him that he was trapped. As the two men trampled down the steps, the Viper made his final, desperate move; he ducked beneath Lana's Colt and ran down the steps into the basement.

John reacted first. He fired off three shots, but none found their mark, and the threesome was forced to duck back onto the stairs as the assassin fired two returning shots before hurling the Sig into the hallway and throwing himself down into the abandoned 221C.

"No!" cried Sherlock, rushing past Lana and pushing her back onto the steps; John caught her before she hit the sharp edges. "He'll get away!"  
>"What do you mean?" asked John, rushing to catch up. Sherlock had paused momentarily to retrieve the fallen Sig, but now was pelting down the stairs.<p>

"There's a window he can use to escape!" Sherlock yelled back. Lana could hear him throwing open doors and hitting walls in his haste to find the fleeing Viper. Suddenly, he swore, very loudly.

"Damn him!" there was another loud bang.

Lana, thinking they had been shot, ran down the stairs to find Sherlock on his feet staring down at something on the floor. She could see the Browning barrel was smoking, and there was a round, dark hole in the wall across the room. The window above the wall was wide open, and the Viper was nowhere to be seen.

Careful to stay away from the far wall, Lana stepped into the center of the room, coming to stand beside Sherlock, who was looking down at what appeared to be a piece of paper left on the ground. John was also examining it, staring at it as though it might explode. Lana bent to look closer, and saw it was a business card, with a crystal ball painted on the center in black ink. Inside of it was a picture of a top hat adorned with needles. Curly black script read 'Madame Finches' House of Acupuncture' beneath the misty orb. Lana reached down and made to pick it up, the better to examine it.

"DON'T!" Sherlock suddenly came to life and threw his whole weight against her, throwing her off guard onto the floor. Lana found herself beneath him as he covered himself with his whole body as though shielding her from a bomb. Confusion was burnt away by anger.

"What was that for?" she protested. Sherlock silenced her with a hand over her mouth as he rolled off of her and slowly drew closer to the harmless little white card lying on the basement floor. With one fluid motion, he pulled off his suit coat and swept it across the ground, using it to turn over the card for Madame Finches. For a moment, there was a total ringing silence, in which John and Sherlock stood poised, as though they were ready to rush forward- or throw themselves backward. But when nothing happened, they allowed themselves to relax, at least for the moment.

Lana, thoroughly confused, sat up, rubbing her head, which was throbbing terribly. She stared at the two men, who were looking at each other with a look of grim understanding. She glanced from one to the other several times, but stopped because clearly nothing was happening and the twisting back and forth was making her head hurt. In fact, everything hurt. Her whole body throbbed in time to her pulse, and as she pulled herself to her feet, the world swam a little. As she stood, she heard Sherlock say, in a deadly calm voice, "I should have known; we're being summoned. Ah, she's clever, so very clever…"

"Summoned by who?" Lana asked, steadying herself against the wall as she reached out for the card that Sherlock had picked up and was spinning between his long, thin fingers.

Sherlock sighed, then handed over the paper. He looked exhausted, drained of all his strength.

Because not for the first time, she had tricked him, and he hated it. "By Irene."

Lana snatched away the card and examined it closer, looking across the insignia before turning the card over. Her eyes widened.

Across the once blank surface of the back, someone had written, in curly black letters, was a message. Lana squinted to make out the loopy cursive.

_Hope to see you soon, sweetheart._

It was signed with an intricately drawn I.

Lana looked up at the two men, her eyes shining with curiosity and confusion, but the two revealed nothing. Instead, they each took one of her arms and helped her up the steps. Each was armed, exhausted and confused. Lana was bleeding, Sherlock was holding a new gun, and John was praying Missus Hudson hadn't heard the noise.

It was two thirty in the morning, and it occurred to Lana, as she lay on the couch, that the whole thing had come off as normal.

But then, it was Baker street, and anything was possible.

_Up next- Not Really His Area _

_In which the wall is murdered, there are photographs and Lana learns Sherlock's secret._


	7. Not Really His Area

Not Really His Area.

_In which the wall is murdered, there are photographs and Lana discovers Sherlock's secret._

"What the HELL are you doing?"

The noise had pulled Lana out of a stupor too light to be called sleep, but it had done so with a horribly rude and echoing bang that shook her to the core and caused her to sit up so quickly she cricked her neck. The memories of last night came back to her in an instant, and she thought wildly that the Viper assassin had come back to finish the job. Frantically, she looked around.

The flat was still in darkness, almost all light doused out by the heavy curtains over the windows, but one of the nearby lamps was on, throwing the apartment in and out of shadow. Lana could make out the shapes of furniture and piles of books all over the floor, along with, of all things, a neon happy face spray-painted on the wall. The contrast to the rest of the room was so bizarre Lana had to resist a sudden urge to laugh, especially once the flat was rocked yet again by a volley of bangs. Lana turned around in time to see Sherlock, still in a dressing gown and slippers, reach into his pocket to reload his still-smoking sig.

Sherlock looked up at the sound of her cries, and seeing Lana was well enough to swear at him, he grinned; a lopsided, half-crazed look that reeked of false pleasure and slight annoyance, with just a hint of blunt amusement.

"Morning."

Immediately following these greetings he raised the gun and tore yet another hole into the wall paper. Lana flinched, rolling off the couch onto her feet. The floor felt real enough, and the flurry of motion told her that this was as real as it got.

This was her new reality.

Still processing everything going on around her, having never been woken up by a gunshot alarm before, not to mention the fact that everything that had happened in the last eighteen hours was just as real as what was happening now, Lana was still swaying slightly when John strolled into the living room, acting as though this was completely normal. He was holding two cups of coffee and handed one to her, smiling in a reassuring way.

"Don't worry about him. He gets like this when he's annoyed."

"I'm not annoyed, John. How many times do I have to cover this? I'm merely bored!" came the angry retort. There was another loud bang, and Lana jumped, while John stared at him calmly over her shoulder.

"You know, eventually, you're going to bring that wall down. And anyway, you and I both know that it's because she's messing with your life again."

"Who's this her?" asked Lana, taking a sip of coffee. It was way to strong and had just a hint of sweetness that made her almost gag, but it was warm and electrifying and she drank it anyway. "So?" she asked, watching John carefully for an answer. She was afraid that asking Sherlock anything at this point, feeling as though the only reply she was going to get was either a swift kick to the head or else a bullet in her neck.

To her surprise, it wasn't John who answered, but Sherlock, who had flopped onto the couch and now lay curled up like a rock around his sig. He looked like a pouting five-year-old. "She's someone from my past and not your problem right now. Go find something useful to do."

"Well, excuse me. I'm not the one who's sulking like a miffed toddler." said Lana, turning and heading toward the kitchen. Cheerfully, she ignored his fresh volley of insults and blunt comments, pulling eggs out of the fridge. From the living room, she heard John taking another whack at Sherlock. There was the sound of something (it sounded like a book) hitting flesh.

"That was RUDE. I don't see why she puts up with you."

Lana froze, praying Sherlock would think on his feet. When no reply came, John seemed to take it as a sign to leave Sherlock to his sulking and came to join Lana in the kitchen.

"Sorry about him. It's not always this loud in the morning. But he's in a bad mood."

"It's fine," she replied, her head in the cabinets, searching for a bowl. John brought one down from the top shelf and held it out to her. "Thanks. How do you like your eggs?"

"Any way you make them is fine. Anything I can do to help?"

Lana gestured around the kitchen. "Well, if you can find one, I need a frying pan. And a spatula."

As John began looking, Lana commented, "So why is he in a bad mood anyway? And who's her? You know, the one you keep mentioning?"

John froze, reaching for a copper frying pan that was (for some reason) hanging in the pantry. Lana saw the exhaustion cloud his face. He sighed.

"Lana, I really don't think it's my story to tell. All I can say is that the fact that now he has you"-Lana's heart gave an unnatural squeeze- "it made me think that he might have put all this behind him. But it was foolish to hope so. I've known him for two years, and this has always been his biggest problem."

At this, John held out the frying pan, his expression grave. "I think he'll tell you when he's ready. It's not something he likes to talk about." He smiled suddenly, just a sliver of a grin on the well-lined face. "Personally, I think it's because it hurts his ego too much."

Lana took the frying pan and cracked a smile. "I figured as much. I mean, he's got an ego bigger than- "

"Then what?"

The voice stopped them dead in their tracks and made them involuntarily turn to look at the door. Leaning against the door was Sherlock, his hair a mess of curly tangles and his dressing gown tied loosely around his tall, lanky form. In his hands was the sig.

It took Lana a moment to react; Sherlock was looking at her with what looked like intent curiosity, but it seemed more as though he was curious about what would happen if he shot her than what she was going to say about his ego. It was an awkward pause; someone had walked in on the conversation at the wrong moment, and the mood was ruined.

But, Lana argued, Sherlock seemed to have a knack for doing that.

Fortunately, John broke the tension by quickly by reaching across the counter and pressing the carton of eggs into Lana's hands. "Here, let's get breakfast started. I need to get to work soon and I'm sure you'll want to-"

"Oh, don't stop your conversation just because I'm here," said Sherlock, plunking down in a chair and putting his feet on the table. "After all, I believe Miss Heart was about to compare my ego to something else. What might it be, Lana? I'm dying to find out."

Lana, who had been holding in her anger with a great deal of self-control, suddenly snapped. Shaking slightly with anger, she took the frying pan from the counter, walked over to Sherlock, and brought it down on his stomach. Sherlock, caught by surprise, convulsed slightly and coughed hard as Lana walked back over to the stove. She heard him give a few more coughs, a strangled gasp, and then utter silence which she associated with him boring his eyes into the back of her head with the iciest of glares. Grinning with satisfaction at the result she had produced, Lana set to work.

Just as the eggs were popping in the frying pan, Sherlock rose from his chair and headed out the door. Lana and John could hear him stalk up the flat stairs to the second level, and, a moment later, the sound of running water. Lana looked at John with curiosity.

"He's taking a shower?"

"It's a sign the worst is over," said John, pulling out two plates and dishing out the now-cooked eggs. "Usually when he's annoyed, he'll work himself up and take a shower to cool down."

"Well, at least he's done murdering the wall," said Lana. "What Missus Hudson will say…"

"After the first few times, I like to hope she's gotten used to the bullet holes all over. We'll just keep paying for new wall paper and everything should be fine."

John glanced at his watch and paled. "Damn! I'm late. Sorry Lana, I've got to get to the office. Sarah's going to kill me. See you tonight." John quickly swallowed the rest of the eggs and dashed out the door, calling from halfway down the stairs, "Try not to break anything; you can just let yourself out when you need to."

The door slammed.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Lana downed the rest of her eggs, took a sip of coffee and headed back into the living room. It was still bathed in darkness, the curtains shut tightly against the morning light and the lamps extinguished. As Lana moved further into the room, her foot caught against something hard, and she swore colorfully. Clutching her foot, she hopped across the room to the curtains and wrenched them open. Light flooded the flat, revealing a general melee of books, clothing, overturned boxes of various objects, and- for no apparent reason- a long, slender sword Lana vaguely recognized as a _katana. _Thankfully she had only overturned one of the cartons and not sliced her foot off. As she moved back into the middle of the room, Lana stooped to pick up the fallen items. She was surprised to see the entirety of the carton had been full of old photographs. Disregarding the thought that this was snooping, Lana flipped them over, one by one, examining them as she put them back in the box. Most were old; faded or ripped on the side, with great, curly captions on the back in blue ink. _The apartment, 1995; Westar's lake, 1997; _each had been taken and labeled with care, but none seemed to go past the year 1998. Lana kept searching, flipping through photo after photo until she found something she never thought she'd find.

The photo was at least ten years old; after all, if he was thirty-four now, Sherlock couldn't have been older than twenty-five here. Lana couldn't believe how young he looked. It was amazing; he looked much the same as he did now, but the youth and light that seemed to emanate from him was unmistakable. His entre face seemed to glow with the warmth of his eyes and his smile. That was what captured Lana, I think; the smile. It seemed to belong to another human being, so strange to see on Sherlock's face, and yet it fit so perfectly she knew it couldn't belong to anyone else. She had to admit, he had a very nice smile; when he felt like showing it. And-granted, it pained her to admit that such an annoying person such as Sherlock could be so attractive- she had to admit that he was extremely handsome in the photograph.

Which might explain the girl on his arm.

But then again, there must have been some point in his life when Sherlock wasn't a COMPLETE sociopath.

"What are you doing?"

Lana looked up. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, fully dressed and rubbing his hair with a towel. He had a look of indifference that was slowly becoming curiosity.

"I found this," said Lana, holding out the photograph. Slowly, Sherlock look it from her and examined it with a now completely blank expression. It was clear he didn't want to say anything about it, and Lana knew she had touched the nerve she was aiming for. Now she just had to strike.

"It's her, isn't it? The one who's got you so worked up." When there was no immediate reply, she pressed on. "Who is she, Sherlock? I know there's something going on and like it or not I'm involved in this case now. You can't afford to not tell me the truth. What aren't you telling me here?"

There was a very long pause, and then Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and sank, defeated onto the couch.

"Fine." He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and began. "I met Irene Adler about twelve years ago at University, and immediately she caught my attention. She was brilliant, deductive, and strong, and yet she was poised and graceful.

"I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the way she became my… girlfriend, I suppose would be the word for it. For the longest time, she was my whole world. I don't know how, but she could draw others to her with her charm, her grace. She burned at the center of my universe. And then that light burned out."

At this, Sherlock fell silent, clutching the photograph and staring at the floor. His face was one of absolute misery. Lana said nothing; she felt as though she had taken a knife to his heart, peeling away, layer by layer, to reveal the tortured soul underneath. It hurt her to know that she was causing him this much pain, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Sherlock plowed on, glaring into the carpet with wild determination to lay the matter to rest.

"After about two years, I was considering proposing to her. She was making plans to move into my flat, a little place on the edge of the Thames. At the time, I was working on a case involving a German smuggling ring, and was, at that time searching for their chief informant here in London. Irene insisted on keeping tabs on the case, saying she wanted to help, and I obliged, thinking nothing of it…"

"No," Lana breathed.

"Sadly, yes," said Sherlock, looking up at her and staring directly into her eyes. "Not long after, I had left to search London for the ring's hideout, and after about an hour of searching I discovered the place. They were all together, speaking rapid German and arguing about when their leader was going to get there. Apparently they had been late before.

"I didn't have long to wait. Soon after, their leader came into the room. Everyone stood as they came in, wrapped in a huge coat. And then it was removed.

"I thought I was going mad. There was no way this could be true. And yet, there was Irene, right in the middle of the ring, chatting with all of them as though they were the closest of coworkers. I listened in on them for over an hour, before the meeting broke up and I was forced to return to my flat. I knew what I had to do then. As much as I loved this woman, I had to turn her over to Scotland Yard. Somehow I had let myself fall in love with a world-class criminal. And she had duped me completely.

"She came around the next night, and I felt as though I was ready to turn her in. but it was pointless. She knew what I knew, and she made me pay dearly for it.

"I didn't know what to expect from her, but the moment she walked, Irene locked the door, shoved me against the couch, and pushed a pistol against my nose. She told me she had seen me the night before, spying on her through the window. Clearly she had been planning this for months now; she explained how she had been feeding my discoveries directly to the rest of the ring, making it impossible for me to find them. I was too late; the last of the goods had been brought to London, and the smuggling ring was breaking up. This was the last Irene thought she would see of me; I honestly thought she was going to kill me. But something held her back that night. I have no idea what it was; I think it was amusement. Irene told me that she wouldn't kill me now, because she enjoyed our little games; she swore she would see more of me in the future, somewhere…"

Sherlock paused again, his eyes reflecting the story back at Lana. She could see it clearly in her mind; a younger Sherlock, getting his heart ripped to pieces by the one woman he had ever loved, and knowing she would always be back for more. Lana tried to imagine his pain, but all she could come up with was the loss of her father; this was much deeper, and she could see the scars it left in him.

"Well," said Sherlock, "Miss Adler decided while she couldn't kill me, she could still toy with me one last time. Before I knew what was happening, I was hit on the back of the head with the gun butt. When I woke up, the flat was in flames and a fireman was standing over me, yelling at me to get up."

He sighed. "That was the last I saw of her for several years. I swore to myself that I would never let myself get caught in a snare like that again and since then, girls have never really been… my area. It's never been worth it to try. There's nothing in that area that interests me that won't lead to a lot of trouble and a lot of sleeping on my stupid brother's couch.

"I kept tabs on her though, wherever it might be possible that she might have been hiding. She's a master of deception, and really, one of my only true enemies. And now, it seems, she's back to mess with my life again."

With these words, Sherlock stood and threw the photograph back into the box. He glared at Lana with a sort of defiance, daring her to question him or try to make him feel better. Lana felt sickened; she realized now why her plan to let her stay here had hurt him so badly. Cautiously, she spoke.

"So, what does she want now?"

His face relaxed. "I wish I knew, but it seems as though it has something to do with your ex-company's missing executives. They must have had some sort of dealings with her in the past, so they all had to disappear when the funding stopped coming in and they couldn't afford to pay Miss Adler back. But they were clever; they must have known they would have to escape eventually; this must have been thought out for years. And now, one by one, she must be following them and hunting them down."

"But there's no evidence that all these victims are our missing directors," Lana pointed out.

"Not until I get the test results back from the lab. I'm taking them in later. No reason for Anderson to get involved; he'll only screw up the data, like everything else he does. But if my hunch is correct, then all of these men have been killed for the same reason; but there's something missing that I just can't put my finger on."

Lana stood up and headed for the door. "Where do you think you're going?" asked Sherlock, throwing the towel across the couch.

"I'm going to investigate that house of acupuncture Miss Adler left us the address to. It's got to mean something."

"There's no way you're going there; you don't know what she's capable of!"

Lana grinned coyly. "Why the sudden concern? Worried about your girlfriend all of a sudden?" she ignored his appalled look. "Listen, I'll be fine; Adler shouldn't know anything about me. I've got my phone, my laptop, my reporter skills, and my baby," she waved the Colt under his nose. "So I'll be fine. Just go bother freaking' Anderson and get those samples tested." Lana grinned. "Don't worry; I'm not going to run. This is my fight too."

With that, she grabbed her bag and ran out. Sherlock stood alone for a moment in the darkened flat, listening to the echoes of her footsteps as they headed down the stairs, then he too grabbed his bag and left with a slam of the door.

_Up next- The Basement_

_in which there is defeat, a move, and chemistry_


	8. chapter 75

He knelt in the darkened room, hands pressing into the floor, praying that the boards would give way and he could simply fall out of here. _Anything, _he prayed, _anything to get me away from the master._

The back of his shirt was torn open, revealing long, pink gashes that stood out, vibrant against his skin. He had been attacked upon arrival, a symbol of his failure. And how badly he had failed; he had not killed Watson or the woman. He had not destroyed the will of Sherlock Holmes; worse, he had been detected on the job and now he had to face the penalties.

A door behind him was thrown open, and he saw his own shadow play in front of him in the light from the hallway. He did not turn; he only listened to the footsteps as they entered the room, shut the door and locked it, sealing them both in the dark prison. The fear poured off of him in waves. He was a warrior of the Vipers; he did not show fear ever, and yet the sight of his master made him quake where he stood.

Then a voice spoke, high and cold. Master spoke in Viper's native tongue, the Indonesian flying out, fast and sharp.

"Anda telah gagal saya."

(You have failed me)

"Menguasai"

(Master)

"Kita tidak memiliki ruang untuk kegagalan sekarang. saya mengatakan kepada Anda untuk membunuh mereka. saya mengatakan kepada Anda untuk melukai Sherlock Homles. Anda gagal. sehingga Anda tahu apa yang saya harus lakukan."

(We do not have room for failure now. I told you to kill them. I tell you to hurt Sherlock Holmes. You fail. So you know what I should do.)  
>"Master, silahkan, tidakda"<p>

(Master, no please…)

apakah kamu sudah berdoa, ular?

(Have you prayed, snake?)

He closed his eyes.

terima kasih atas informasi Anda. Anda telah sangat bermanfaat. Anda telah membantu tujuan mulia

"Thank you for your information. You've been very beneficial. You've helped a noble cause."

The bang of the gun echoed down the hallways.

The Vipers body lay on the ground before the master's feet. With a grunt, the body was kicked aside, the door was swung open, and the door shut. The Viper was useless; no reason to leave the mark on his body.

So, Sherlock Holmes had won this round. He had escaped unharmed, and the Viper's had lost their best assassin. Still, this information was very interesting. The idea that Sherlock might have found another woman… now that was something worth considering.

Because if Holmes had found himself a lover, then he had carved himself a weak point.

The master smiled. Holmes was dancing all over again, and this time the show would end with a bang.

This time they would watch Holmes burn. There would be no more mistakes.

Special thanks to Google translate, I couldn't have done this half a chapter without you.


	9. The Basement

The Basement

_In which there is defeat, a move and chemistry_

The three of them sat at the scrubbed kitchen table, surrounded by silence and lost in a haze of thought. They all had much to say, and little time to say it in, because two of them knew the third was on a short fuse, and they wanted to clear the kitchen before anything blew up. Lana and John sat, playing with their food and stealing glances at Sherlock, who was proceeding to grind a pen with extreme force into the table. Both waited for him to speak.

With a clatter, Sherlock threw the pen onto the counter. The echoes of plastic hitting metal bouncing around the kitchen seemed to reawaken him to the gaping hole he was making in the conversation, and he finally spoke.

"Well, have you two done anything useful?"

He was on a shorter fuse than they thought. John spoke up quickly. "I had some time off during my shift to run some theories and make a few phone calls."

"So aside from order food and call your girlfriend, did you do anything actually relevant?"

John brushed off the insult and pressed on. "Irene's been moving around plenty since she ended up in London. Renting new flats, changing identities, but it's always her; she's fairly easy to trace," he added, throwing Sherlock a meaningful look.

"The eye drawn on the wall?"

"Of course."

"How many?"

"At least four; all the same."

"She's baiting us," Sherlock muttered, mulling it over. "Adler's too smart to think we don't know she's here. She's leaving us obvious clues, testing us to let us try and find her location…" he was back in silent mode, and Lana spoke quickly to avoid another awkward pause.

"I went down to that acupuncture place that was on the card."

They stared at her, suddenly alert.

"Well?" asked Sherlock?  
>"Well, nothing. There's nothing there but a mystic's house." Lana reached into her bag and dug out her laptop, which she opened and placed on the table. "I took some pictures of the exterior, though, so you can take a look."<p>

Both men crowded beside her, looking at the screen as Lana flicked through the pictures. The house was tall, and old; nothing was particularly alarming about it aside from its Victorian style and a wooden sign above the door that bore the same message and symbol as the card. Wide bay windows were all covered by wide curtains that shut the inside out from the rest of the world.

"What've you got?" asked John

Sherlock paused. "Not much." When John threw him a look, he continued. "House is roughly 40 years old, badly in need of repair and only recently bought. It's Victorian-style but not age based on the state of it and the materials, so, home to someone wealthy originally. Today, it'd be considered decent lodgings with plenty of rooms and a few customers a few times a week. Well-protected and a good spot for a crime ring." He turned back to Lana. "That doesn't give us anything to work with when it comes to the situation right now."

"That situation being?"

At this, Sherlock stood and pulled a large cardboard box out of the freezer, which he placed unceremoniously on the table, almost landing in the middle of John's bowl of soup. Ignoring John and Lana's sudden haste to get dinner off the table, Sherlock began pulling out the various bags and vials of blood that he had been studying all day. "I took the blood in for DNA testings to make sure I wasn't mistaken and it came up with a list of these names and photos, the same ones I came up with when I tested them myself a few weeks ago," he produced a sheet of paper, which he handed to Lana. "For once the Yard wasn't completely useless. Anderson nearly had a fit though, when I walked in with a bag full of blood and made everyone leave."

"Is there any reason for him not to hate you? You were the one who made him and his wife get a divorce."

"I had nothing to do with it!" Sherlock scoffed.

"You told the whole yard that he was sleeping with Donovan. I think that's reason enough," John pointed out. Noticing Lana hadn't snapped at Sherlock in the past five seconds, John turned to look at her. Lana was sitting on the counter, staring at the list of names Sherlock had given her. She was completely white, and her eyes were like saucers. The bruises on her arms stood out like black blotches; she looked like a tortured ghost.

"Lana? Are you alright?" asked John.

Lana's mouth moved, but no words came out. It took a long time for her to remember to breath and even longer for her to explain. "My god," she whispered. "It's them. It's all them, the missing executives. A little plastic surgery, and some fake names, but it's definitely them."

"Yes, obviously," Said Sherlock curtly, sweeping the files back into his arms. He swung himself out of the kitchen and into the living room, refusing to look at her.

"Sherlock, you don't understand, this is great. You know for sure that they're hunting the executives now, so all we have to is get the word out to them and-"

"No, miss Heart, I DO understand," Sherlock spat out from his place by the window. "If this is so perfect, where do you propose we go from here? Because the last time I checked, 11 of these men have already been killed!"

As though to enforce the last word, Sherlock threw one of the nearest books into the wall with a bang. It contrasted the following silence perfectly.

"What do you mean '11 of them'?" asked Lana, her face growing pale.

Sherlock threw her a withering, angry look that sent her reeling as he reached for the door and wrenched it open. Behind it on the landing was a thoroughly surprised Detective Inspector LeStrade.

….

"Damn it!" Lana slammed her arm into the wall and leaned against it, trying to contain her anger. Beside her on the table were shots of the mutilated body of Mr. Timothy Canis, the eleventh of the murdered executives. He had been ripped open by an assassin group known only as The Razorback, but on his still-clear chest was drawn the huge eye in blood-red lipstick. John, who was sitting nearby, picked up the photos and stood up. He strode down the hallway and stopped outside Sherlock's bedroom door. He paused for a moment, and then started knocking down the door with all the force he could muster.

"You can't keep hiding in there, you know. I know you're annoyed you haven't caught her yet but people have died and more will die soon unless you get out here and help us, Sherlock!"

For a moment, there was no response, and then a voice slithered out from behind the door.

"Is LeStrade gone?"

"Yes", John sighed.

With that the door flew open, and Sherlock was standing there, dressed in his jacket, gloves and scarf. Striding past John as though he was a table, Sherlock walked back into the living room and faced Lana with a look of maddening superiority.

"Get your things. We've got a killer to catch. I've already ordered a cab for all of us."

"What?" asked Lana, thoroughly confused. Meanwhile, John had moved upstairs and was returning, pulling a jacket over himself as he came. To him, after two years, this was normal, and he almost felt a surge of pity as Sherlock advanced on her. He wasn't quite sure what Sherlock had planned. As John left the flat, he saw Sherlock step forward and get closer to Lana with a look of growing excitement.

"Lana, there's a serial killer loose in London who's murdering executives of a fallen company and also wants all three of us dead. She's ruthless and a bit demented and we know her next target. And since I know you're coming with us I'd prefer you didn't freeze to death."

"What's the guarantee that I'm coming?" asked Lana, her bluff failing her.

"Why else would you stay here?" asked Sherlock, one foot out the door. "Look, my patience is wearing thin. So I'll only say this once." With these words, he took a step closer and suddenly darted out and caught Lana by the wrist. Caught by surprise, she flew directly into his chest. When she looked up, Lana found herself nose to nose with him, and as she struggled to stay focused, she could hear Sherlock's words loud and clear in her ears.

"Lana Heart, get your coat."

….

Three Weeks Later

"What part of 'be careful' didn't you understand, you idiot?"

Sherlock stood in the room, rubbing his sore shoulder and swearing under his breath. He had kept his grip on his side of the bed when he slammed into the door frame, but Lana could tell his grip was failing, so she quickly guided him into the room and lined up the mattress on the bed frame. Immediately, Sherlock, rolling his shoulder, quickly left the room, muttering something about a dressing table. Lana could hear him banging on the wall up the as he headed back up the stairs, cursing the door frame as he went. With a light laugh, Lana adjusted the bed and began slipping her sheets over the bare mattress.

It was three week since Canis had died, and Lana figured that if they were going to continue working together, they needed to stop acting like they were hiding her. She was wasting their couch space and as much as she admired their chivalry, she was in no mood to spend the rest of her time in London skulking in a man-cave. So, ignoring their warnings, Lana had marched downstairs and knocked on Missus Hudson's door. The elderly landlady had taken the news that her two men upstairs had been hiding a girl upstairs for the past two and a half weeks fairly well. After Lana made her two cups of tea and fed her their story (She and Sherlock were dating, they were working on a case, etc, etc.) Missus Hudson finally spoke.

"Well dear, I wasn't ever sure about those two upstairs, even with Dr. Watson's lady friend coming round plenty, but I suppose everything straightens itself out in the end. I wish you had said something earlier, but I'm afraid that the only other apartment we've got is the basement one, if you don't mind the damp. Goodness knows you've certainly got me surprised, I never thought Sherlock would look into a lady. I'll work out the rent with you later dear, you take your keys.

"Oh yes, and Lana? Just don't sleep with him yet, dear."

'At least she didn't throw me out' Lana thought as she spread out the comforter, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. 221C was empty and faded, but the light spilling onto the bed from the window helped warm up the room. She decided it looked decent enough.

"Where do you want this?" asked Sherlock, reemerging from the hallway carrying a small dressing table.

"Here's fine." Lana pointed alongside the bed. "You took your time." Sherlock ignored her and set the table down with deliberate force. Lana heard the drawers rattle.

"Really, where did you find all this junk anyway?"

"Missus Hudson had some extra furniture she said I could use for now. Nice of you to call her things junk. Besides, now I'm out of your hair and off you couch."

"What's wrong with my couch?"

"Well, it's yours, so it's rude."

"I don't mind."

"Don't lie. Look, if me staying here bothers you I can leave."

"Lana, you're not a bother. But at this point you're just being an idiot. Don't you know that?"

Lana wasn't sure she had heard him right. She wasn't sure what to think about Sherlock's reply- in fact, she wasn't sure about him at all. After two weeks she could say she knew plenty about John (including that he was a sucker for Chinese food, could sing decently well and was rubbish at Parcheesi, thanks to their nightly matches), but Sherlock was still an empty slate. She couldn't get a fixed read on him, aside from the fact that he was blunt, arrogant, good with a gun, and brilliant. He didn't show a lot of emotion and almost everything he said made her want to punch him. Yet his intensity, his wit and his eccentric nature drew her in and kept her interested in him. His brilliance gave her something to try and match-without much success- and she enjoyed being a better shot than he was. And although it pained her admit it, she thought he was devilishly handsome- although she would never say that to Sherlock.

After a moment, Lana looked up. Sherlock was staring at her, his face impossible to understand. It was strange; he almost looked... embarrassed. Her face folded into lines of confusion as Sherlock took a step toward her.

"I'm sorry, Lana."

Lana wasn't sure what happened next. Honestly, I don't think Sherlock knew either. All either of them knew was that one moment they were standing in the new apartment, staring into each other's faces, and the next Sherlock had wrapped Lana in his arms and he was kissing her.

It caught Lana by such a surprise that she didn't react immediately. She simply stood, wrapped in Sherlock's arms- strong and sure around her- trying to comprehend that his lips were pressed against hers, so gently, but full of so much passion. But then away fell the analysis, and all Lana could see was a lifetime ahead of her full of Sherlock and Sherlock's annoying insults, gun-crazy mornings, and kisses so full of love they struck her dumb. Lana knew she had broken their unsaid rule.

Well, so had he. So she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

….

All right, you creepers, perverts and Missus Hudsons. I know what you're thinking, and no, they didn't. They're not idiots. They were two fairly brilliant people who annoyed the hell out of each other and had somehow become totally attracted to each other, but they weren't idiots. At least not when it came to that. But I guess they were idiots to think this wouldn't happen. As they lay on Lana's new bed, watching the dust dance in the light from the window, Lana reached out and took his hand. It was warm and alive and gentle as he laced his fingers between hers. She looked over at him, wanting to say something and yet afraid it would destroy the beauty of their private silence. Behind the black jacket and flushed complexion his face was full of light, and his smile as innocent as a twelve year old boy. No words were necessary as Lana moved in closer, fitting her body alongside his. She reached out and brushed some hair away from his wide green eyes.

Above them, dust swirled.

….

"So, what now?" asked Lana, as she sat up and readjusted her shirt. Sherlock was buttoning his jacket at the foot of the bed while staring out the window. He turned to look at her, a smile playing around his face.

"Well, I'm going upstairs to investigate further into Irene's movements, run some searches for this mystery executive, alert LeStrade, get ready to break into the House of Acupuncture, and then, Miss Heart, I'm taking you to dinner."

"I thought digestion slows you down."

Sherlock's grin widened. "I'll make an exception. Besides, we have to come up with nine weeks of a relationship to tell John about."

As he swung himself out of the flat, Lana couldn't help but smile. There was a serial killer who wanted her dead, and she was sharing a flat with two strange men who put themselves in danger to pay the rent, and yet things had never looked brighter.

If this was love-drunk, she didn't mind.

_Up next- House arrest_

_In which there is an interrogation, so house-breaking and a revealed secret._


	10. house arrest

House arrest

_In which there is are explanations, some house-breaking and revealed secrets._

It wasn't as though Sherlock hadn't lied to John before; he had done so on numerous occasions, for various reasons, and under various circumstances (one of which had led to John getting stuck on top of a water tower for an hour and a half). But this was the first time that Sherlock's lies didn't influence their case at all. John, more to cover up the awkwardness of the situation than anything else, took a swig of tea. He avoided looking across the table, where Sherlock was sitting, beet red and staring at the rain outside. It didn't bother John as much as he thought it would to learn that his best friend and a strange girl had been lying to him for the past three weeks, since he was already pretty accustomed to Sherlock lying to him on a regular basis.

"But what I don't understand is why you two wouldn't tell me all this in the first place; it's not like I was going to say anything."

"John, come on. You know just as well as I do that if I told you the truth you would have made me throw her out. Besides, it didn't really start the way we thought it would."

They were sitting in their corner booth as usual, Northumberland street curving behind them (they couldn't both stare) but instead of discussing a new case and playing with their food as they had done for the past two years, this time they were playing with their food and discussing the one topic that hadn't arisen since their first time in the little café; girls. And this time, it wasn't even John who brought the topic up in the first place.

It had to be a record.

John took another sip of tea and surveyed his friend. Sherlock was staring out at the street, looking sullen and completely uncomfortable in the light from the cars outside. John could tell the whole situation was foreign to his friend, and Sherlock couldn't bear himself to admit that to him. But while it did give John some satisfaction to have more knowledge than Sherlock at least once, he wasn't insensitive to his friend's problem.

"The least I can do is accept it, Sherlock. Remember the first time I brought Sarah over? I owe you the same favor of keeping my mouth shut to what I thought."

"The first time you brought her over, we ended up in a tramway with a Chinese smuggling ring."  
>"And when you first brought Lana over, we had an assassin break in. are you seeing a pattern here?"<p>

Sherlock's only response was to take a sip of drink and return to staring at the window; not quite looking out, more like he was watching the glass itself. John pressed on. "Look, it's all fine with me. I don't mind that you're together, I don't mind she's moved in, and I honestly wouldn't give a damn if anything happens between you two. What I'm curious is about is whether or not you're going to accept that letting her in means bringing her with us."

"It doesn't mean that at all," he replied.

"Yes, Sherlock, it does. She's involved now, whether you like it or not. You have to face facts."

"What do you think I'm DOING, John?" Sherlock shot back. "I told myself I was never going to let this happen again; I threw away the idea of emotion and I swore I wouldn't let myself get caught up in this pointless world. Being married to my work made everything easier to see; I didn't have to worry about emotions getting in the way of things. It's always been the new facts and next problem and that's been enough for me."

"So what changed?"  
>There was a very long pause.<p>

"I wish I knew."

John leaned forward. "Then this is your greatest puzzle yet."

Sherlock looked up, glowering. "Don't test me, John."

"I mean it, Sherlock. You've got to face facts; I know you make fast decisions and that's fine but now that you've made this one you have to admit to yourself the truth."

"Which is?"

"That when it comes to a relationship with anyone, you're an idiot."

Again with the long pause. John didn't know how long it was going to take Sherlock to lose his usual maddening superiority and admit that he was absolutely ignorant to how to deal with the situation, but he was prepared to sit and wait for the bomb to drop. He knew this wasn't going to be easy for his friend, but it was something Sherlock was going to have to face, one way or another.

It was nearly ten minutes later, after a period of total silence that John Watson heard the words he had secretly been dying to hear.

"You're right, John. I don't know what I'm doing."

"So, was that so hard?" asked John, trying to hold back his glee.

"Piss off."

John laughed and stood to leave. "Well, the worst is over. Come on, she's probably wondering where we are, and we have some work to do."  
>Sherlock stood and threw some money onto the table, then shrugged his way into his coat. "Plenty of work, yes. We have a serial killer to catch, and a brilliant one at that. Love the brilliant ones, especially the brilliant serial killers; they're always so desperate to get caught…"<p>

The two men walked out of the café and into the night.

….

Two nights later.

Sherlock stood in the center of the room, the gun rigid in his hand. He was completely alone in the dark, the silence pressing on his ears like someone had wrapped a compression around his head. Lana and John could be anywhere by this point; there had been no sign of either of them since they had all split up and searched the building for clues. There wasn't any evidence suggesting they were dead or alive, but knowing Irene Sherlock was expecting the worse. He had barely stepped into this room when the door bolted behind him. It had taken him barely a second for him to analyze everything, and these were the facts.

_Fact- they know we're here. _

_Fact- they know we're separated._

_Fact- they're probably going to kill us_

_Fact- Irene intends to torture me first. That's got to be the only reason I'm still alive_

For someone who knew he was probably going to die, Sherlock handled the situation fairly well. Slowly, he rotated on the spot, staring up at the ceiling that was lost in the blackness above him. The feeling of being watched gave him a sweeping sense of déjà-vu, and for a moment, he was back at the pool, the water lapping near his feet the only thing to break the silence. He saw the lights dancing off the water, the shadows on the walls, John strapped to enough explosives to take down the building. Sherlock blinked the image away and took a deliberate step forward.

"Alright, Miss Adler. You've got me here. What do you want? The other assassins are gone; I don't think anyone wanted to stick around when you were arrested. So," he stepped forward again, listening to the sound bounce off the silent walls, "What's left for you to do to me?"

One moment to ringing silence, and then a voice called out from high above him.

"Anything I want, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock didn't react, determined to hold his poker face. He should have known; she had been watching them from the moment they broke into the House of Acupuncture. It had been too easy for them, and Irene always liked to provide a challenge.

Once again the voice flew across the room. It wasn't a voice he recognized, but he wouldn't put it past Irene to steal someone's voice just to throw him off.

"I thought you might have thought this through a little bit farther, Sherlock. You're supposed to be clever, aren't you?"

"People have stopped dying and I believe that's a result of my being clever. Besides, holing yourself up in this place, what's with that? It's like you're begging me to catch you."

"You think you're going to catch me? Well, it's a lovely thought, but I don't think that's going to be possible."

"And why is that?" asked Sherlock as casually as he could under the circumstances.

"Because you, Sherlock Holmes, are the only man I've ever faced who never had a weakness. But times change, don't they? Now, you have two."

A blinding flash above him forced Sherlock's gaze upward. It was a pair of spotlights, and they cut through the darkness like a knife, illuminating the tops of two pillars that rose at least fifteen feet into the air.

John was standing on one of them. On the other was Lana.

Both were blindfolded, and were held in place by a tall, masked figure. Sherlock could tell that they had been ordered to keep silent, because both the figures held knives against his friends' throats.

As Sherlock took an involuntary step forward, the voice rang out again. "Careful, Sherlock. One more step and I'll give the order. Those two men up there? They're the assassins known as the Magicians. Wonderful at making others disappear; however, not the best at bringing them back. But if you'd like to stop me, by all means, keep moving forward!"

He didn't move. There was a laugh that bounced off the high walls, and it gave the impression that Sherlock was surrounded by a crowd of invisible people.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have confirmed it; Sherlock Holmes has gone soft!"

Sherlock gritted his teeth, tightening his grip still further on the pistol. How could he have been so stupid? They should never have split up, and now _they had Lana. And John. I'm such an idiot. No, no, listen to yourself! I have to focus. _Sherlock hated that he had let his thoughts escape him in the heat of the moment. He chose his words quickly. "Why not shoot me? I've just been standing here and you haven't done a thing."

"Why shoot you without saying hello first?"

At once, Sherlock found himself hit with a wave of white light. He squinted against the sudden brightness, and when his eyes adjusted, he saw her.

Was it Irene? Of course it was Irene. Have you even been paying attention?

She stood a few feet in front of him, looking exactly as she had that fateful night. Long dark brown hair, steely grey eyes, full lips and handsome features. Tall and poised, wearing a long black dress and stiletto heels that put her almost on level with Sherlock, Irene surveyed him like a hawk from high above. Sherlock almost shuddered; it was like looking at himself.

Irene smiled sweetly. "It's been a long time, not catch up over dinner?"

"Can we drop the act and get on with it? Why did you kill them? You've been playing a dangerous game. Hiring assassins from all over the world, leaving a trail of obvious clues, knowing I've been following your every move. Why bother?"

"Why not?" asked Irene, twirling a lock of hair between her long pale fingers. "I'm rich and I'm single. What on earth am I supposed to do with all this money? Besides, what better way to get attention then to collect on some old debts?" she smiled icily. "And what better way to ease some boredom than a bit of murder?"

"You've killed eleven innocent people."

"They cheated me. I can't stand stinginess. Your point?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He just lifted the gun level with her chest.

"Well, I can see you're doing well for yourself, Mr. Holmes. A flat mate, some money, and even a girlfriend now. And I never thought you had it in you. Can't say I approve of your taste, but-"

"Shut up." He growled.

"I don't think you're in a position to get me to do anything."

Sherlock cocked the pistol. "You forget who has the gun."

"You forget who has the hostages. One move on me and I kill them both."

"John, Lana? Are you alright?" Sherlock called.

"Let them speak," said Irene, almost lazily; it sounded as though she was more interested what they might say than what they might do. It was clear she was confident they wouldn't try anything. She was holding on all the cards.

"Fine," John called, breathing hard. "They didn't do much to me. What about you Lana? Alright?"

"I can't see a thing and I think I'm going to get stabbed. Nothing broken though. Where are we?" Sherlock could hear her trying to stay calm, but her voice shook.

"You're standing at the edge of a fifteen foot high pillar. If they push you off it's a direct fall to a stone floor. If you take another step forward you'll fall and probably die." Sherlock reported.

"Oh, you're a big help, thanks for the confidence" she shot back, doing everything she could to stop herself from breaking down completely.

"Oh, listen to them; they're flirting again. Remember when we used to do that, Sherlock? Over that phone of mine? Ah, I miss it. But it looks like I've been replaced." Irene jeered. "So, what about it Lana? Has he gotten you pregnant yet?"

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, raising the pistol to point it between Irene's eyes.

"Well, that's a bit harsh," she replied, her voice a deadly calm. "And I really think that you should be a bit more polite to me, Sherlock. After all, I know you. I can do whatever I want to you and you'll be powerless to stop me."

"What do you think you can do? Kill me? Kill them? The police will be on you immediately. You've left yourself completely unprotected; all the assassins have fled from you. And anyone can track this place and the bodies that'll be left here."

"Oh, I don't mind the mess. Besides, more fun for me to get creative and hide your bodies. There are a hundred places I could hide you in this house. And if it's that easy…" Irene gestured to her two cronies. Both of them gave hard shoves, pushing Lana and John forward over the edge of the pillars.

"NO!"

Sherlock lunged forward. He knew that here was nothing he could do from this angle that would benefit them in any way, but the thought of Lana, covered blood, lying on the ground, slowly dying…

Irene's laugh broke him out of his thoughts, her demonic cackling echoing off the walls and plowing into his ears. Impulsively, he looked up.

Both his friends had been caught by the back of their clothing, the two assassins the only thing that stood between them crashing into the stone floor fifteen feet below them. Sherlock let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Slowly he looked back at Irene.

"Didn't think I'd make it that easy, did you?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with a sickening glee. Sherlock stared her down and again focused the pistol at her forehead. "Well, I suppose you know what comes next. If you've been following me as closely as you say then you should know my style by now. This little game of ours can't be completed without a little sacrifice, now can it? I'm going to get away with this either way, but you can give it your best effort. The question is which piece is the most indispensible. Your knight?" she gestured to John, "or your castle?"

The sweat was starting to creep along his hairline now, but there was no way Irene could see it from here. At least, that's what he hoped. He had been trapped and he knew it.

"So, what's it going to be, Sherlock? Dr. Watson…or Miss Heart? Your friend… or your lover? Decide. Now."

With these words, Irene twitched her hand once again, and the Magicians released their captives. Lana and John were thrust out into space, falling toward the stone floor.

_Up next-Magic Show_

_In which there is blood, sweat and tears._


	11. Magic Show

Magic Show

_In which there is blood, sweat and tears._

The pain didn't come gradually. It came as strong and painfully as death itself.

….

Sherlock stood panting, his arms burning form the sudden strain and his heart pounding from that moment of pure adrenaline. He was certain he had been right; all the facts and observations up to this point had all led to him making the decision to save one and let the other plummet to the floor. One had fallen with a sickening crack, but the other had fallen safely into Sherlock's arms and, aside from a few bruises, seemed unhurt. Quickly Sherlock pulled away the blindfold and undid the knotted rope.

"Are you alright?" he hissed.

John blinked in the sudden light, rubbed his sore wrists, and nodded. His legs shook from the combined shock of feeling floor beneath his feet and crushing knowledge that he nearly died. There had been the release, the air rushing past his face, and John Watson had braced for death. Instead of falling into Death's crushing grip, however, he had fallen into the strong, but boney arms of Sherlock Holmes.

Now John stood, sucking in air and trying to regain his balance and focus. Even through the shock still thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat, he was reminded of a single, important fact.

_We're surrounded by killers._

He had no idea why Irene had kept them alive as long as she had, though he was fairly sure it had only been as a game to spite Sherlock into doing something stupid. Irene had left him the impossible choice; whether to save him or Lana, and left the rest up to-

Lana.

John turned on the spot so quickly he nearly cricked him neck. Lying on the floor at the foot of the second pillar was a tiny, still form.

Sherlock dashed past him in a storm of black coat. He dropped to his knees at Lana's side, staring at the pile of flesh and hair before him. He couldn't even tell if she was breathing. Slowly, he brushed away her hair and turned her face toward him, pulled away the blindfold and studied her for a moment.

"John!"

But John was already there, letting his professional side take control. He knelt beside Sherlock, surveying Lana as calmly as he could. What he saw wasn't good. There was extensive damage to her right shoulder, her arm lying as useless as rubber at a horrible angle. Her shoulder was clearly popped out of its socket, and her head was wet with blood from a blow to the back of her head. But John could feel her heartbeat and the shallow breaths on the back of his hand.

She was alive. At least for now.

John looked up at Sherlock. "why?"

"why what?"

"why not save her?" john tried his best to keep his voice down; he didn't think Irene or either of the Magicians would take kindly to the news that both of them had actually survived.

"Because I was watching her," Sherlock replied shakily. His thoughts flashed back to all the data he had gathered; Lana, curling in on herself in the alley, Lana turning onto her side as she fell down the stairs, and now, here in the hideout, jerking to the side the moment the Magician had shoved her forward. He knew she would be hurt, but if his theory was correct, she would survive.

And Sherlock was almost never wrong.

It was the sound of a slamming door that made them look up. Both of them snapped to attention, looking around for the source of the noise. In the room with high ceilings and hard stone, everything bounced off the walls and reflected off everything.

But I guess that made things all the easier for Irene.

She was back on the microphone for only a moment, long enough to get the message across.

"You know you've been beaten, Mr. Holmes, and old habits die hard for me."

The next sound was that of an explosion on the other side of the door.

It took Sherlock exactly one sixteenth of a second to decide what to do.

"John, take Lana and GO!"

The two men grabbed the semi conscious girl and made a break for the door behind them. Already, the crackling of the flames and the smoke was seeping into the room. Sherlock passed Lana off to John and started feeling the edges of the door.

_Fact- bolted from the outside, about an inch and a half, hard wood, weakest around the edge of the door frame._

_Fact- kick the door in, two kicks around the lock, one good shove, extra kick for good measure should bring it down._

_Fact- one right turn into the main hallway, three different exits, one blocked by fire, one by debris, which_

_Fact- leaves the roof._

….

John heard Sherlock kicking the door in, a loud crack that was still muffled by the sound of crackling flames. It made him shudder; the sound of flames licking the walls brought him back to Afghanistan. Already the air was choked with smoke and making his eyes stream, but he tried his best to blink the smoke out of his eyes and lean as close as he could to Lana's face. She stared up at him, trying to focus on his face.

"Lana, listen to me. you're going to need to get up as soon as I tell you, ok? I'm going to have to pop your shoulder back now; it should- it should give you a hard enough adrenaline rush to get you out of building until we can call an ambulance. Do you hear me?"

She nodded, but he wasn't sure she understood. Carefully as he could under the situation, considering the fact that the fire was starting to lick though the door behind them and heat was making it feel like a sauna, John felt through along Lana's shoulder to the popped out bone. He gritted his teeth, held her down, and pulled it forward.

The sickening pop reverberated through the air, and Lana snapped forward with a cry like an animal. John grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, caught her when she pitched forward, and pulled her toward the now cracked door. Sherlock gave the door one final shove and it fell forward, and the three of them pushed each other out as fast as their weakened bodies would allow. Just as they crossed the threshold, the door on the other side of the room imploded, and the firestorm raged in, it's hungry fingers craving oxygen.

And it seemed like the fire was after them, too.

The three of them dashed as fast as they could, feeling the heat and the smoke on their backs as they tore through doorway and into the main hallway. The flames licked at their heels as they charged forward, John and Lana chasing after the flapping black coat in front of them.

"This way!" Sherlock roared, throwing himself against one of the doors on the right side of the hallway. It led them all onto the foot of a steep stairway, and they threw themselves up in a blind determination bordering on panic. The cracking roar of the fire was getting closer; if John had dared to look back, he would have seen the flickering orange growing brighter as the fire closed in.

Irene meant to burn them alive.

Another explosion rocked the building as they pounded up the steps, Sherlock flying up them like a huge bird of prey, Lana in the middle, dragging her useless arm and hugging her broken ribs. And John, ever the soldier, holding onto his strongest bit of control and hurtling up the stairs, urging Lana to keep moving and never taking his eyes off of Sherlock's back. All three of them tried their best to block out the sounds of fire roaring behind them like an angry beast.

They reached the landing and tore to the right under Sherlock's direction. The other two assumed Sherlock knew what he was doing, and now wasn't really the best time to contradict him. Down the choking hallways, the smoke forcing its way down into their lungs and making them cough and sputter as they bent lower and lower, trying to get away from its prying fingers.

For the briefest of moments, John was back in Afghanistan, the heat of the battle, the rage of the firestorm. His friends were dying around him. And then he blinked, and the burning timbers of the house were creaking around them, taunting them with the promise of collapse. And still they ran, only stopping when Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of a huge bay window. Through the smoke and light behind them, they could make out a sweep of grass and the road curving like a trail of ink. john looked at his friend, and understood with a rush of clarity what his friend intended.

If anything, this was definitely the moment for one of Sherlock's stupid snap decisions.

Sherlock swept off his coat, wrapped it around his hands like a giant cast, and smashed it through the window. The glass shattered like glitting diamonds in the firelight as they fell to the ground two stories below, leaving behind a hole large enough for them to slip through.

But only just. One way or another, there was going to be blood.

John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and threw himself out into the cool London air.

It was odd, but in that moment when he cleared the house and it was just him and the night air, with the sounds of the house tearing itself apart roaring in his ears, John felt the strangest sense of calm. He let his military training take control, shifting and rolling onto the ground. The smell of the grass was like a blessing; he inhaled, hacked out a cough, and forced himself onto his knees.

Kneeling in the grass, John looked back up at Hell's inferno.

The house was all but consumed now, flames licking the walls and turning the walls a dark, angry black. It was raining embers and ash, falling like burning snow. But even through the raging fire and crackling wood, John kept his eyes on the window high above him on the second floor.

And as he stared, John Watson said his closest thing to a prayer.

_Please God, let them live._

….

"GO!"

Lana glared at him, a look of anger and fear. "I know what you're thinking. You first."

"She has to be stopped!"

"At what cost?" she cried, the sweat on her face running down her face like tears. "She's gone!"

"We don't know that!"

Lana grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders and forced him to look her right in the eyes. "I know I won't lose you to her. So stop arguing and jump!"

Sherlock glared right back. In the heat of his anger and, he seemed like a demon, wreathed in flame and smoke. Still holding her gaze, he cradled her neck in his hands and brought his lips to hers.

It happened in a fraction of a second, and it was so sudden she was forced backward. She felt the edges of the glass, and in a terrible realization of what he was planning, looked up just in time to see Sherlock's arms shift and throw her out into the night. Her arm outstretched, she fell toward the dark grass, his name and his kiss still tingling on her lips.

….

Sherlock watched her fall, saw her hit the ground, saw John rush over to her and help her away from the worst of the fire. He saw John pull out his phone and dial for an ambulance that was already on it's way.

Then Sherlock turned back to Irene, standing at the end of the hall. Behind her was a flight of steps; Sherlock guessed it led to the back door.

"I suppose I do need to be stopped, Sweetheart, but that's for next time."

"I could stop you now."

"Oh, you know I've already beaten you. Beating you once was an honor, but beating you twice, the same way, is a privilege."

Sherlock snarled.

"I'll give you some time to work on your manners. Then next time I'm in town we'll have dinner."

"I'm not hungry," he responded. Irene smiled.

"Not for my cooking anyway." She turned to leave. "And just so you know, you should tell her the truth about us. About the scandal, about the camera phone-"

"What I do is none of your business."

"That's what you think." She turned to leave. "You'll be hearing from me again, Sherlock. Make no mistake." She blew him a kiss, and with a wave of smoke and flame, she was gone.

Again. She had beaten him again.

Sherlock bit his tongue and jumped.

….

Lana saw him jump from the window like some downed hawk. He fell to earth in a crumpled heap and then she was sprinting toward him.

Never mind the fact her arm was on fire, never mind the fact that she could barely breathe. He was there. He had to be alive. He had to.

She ran into the smoke, coughing and sputtering as more and more poured out of the windows and onto the lawn. It made everything dark and blurry as she staggered through the grass, looking for Sherlock.

In reality, they bumped into each other.

Sherlock, coughing just as hard, felt her fall into him and Lana felt the warmth of his jacket and instinctively clung on. She felt his arms around her, his breath in her ear, his muscles tighten and relax as he picked her up. She went limp, exhausted. Sherlock looked down in concern.

"Stay with me, Lana. Just a little longer, we'll be fine."

"Shut up…" she murmured, as everything began to feel dark and heavy. Then she was gone.

….

Lestrade stood beside the ambulance, watching a very wired John Watson. John was standing, twisting his head this way and that, and honestly looking like he was going to pass out from panic. Lestrade was about to tell him to sit down, that the firemen had put out the blaze, that they would soon find Sherlock and…the girl, but he saw it would do little good. There was nothing to do but wait and hope that Sherlock had made it out.

Then out of the smoke rose a dark shadow, a figure wrapped in smoke like a sable cape, carrying something in its arms. He advanced, growing closer and closer, more and more defined as he stepped from the rubble of the burned house.

Yes, Sherlock did love to be dramatic.

He was covered in soot, sweat, and dirt, and was holding a young woman who looked more dead than alive. Wordlessly, he placed her on a waiting stretcher, and then watched as they loaded her into the back of the waiting ambulance. John came and stood by his best friend; then they both climbed up beside the stretcher with such a sense of finality no one dared try and stop them.

The last thing Lestrade saw was Sherlock reach out and take hold of the woman's hand before the doors shut.

Sirens blaring, the ambulance drove off, soon followed by the squad cars, the bystanders, and the fire trucks. Silence fell on the burned block, the smoke still rising, a pillar reaching up against a starlit sky. There were no other cars passing by, no more sirens blaring, no more people yelling or screaming in panic.

There was only Lestrade and the ash.

_Up next- Baggage Claim_

_In which there is packing, goodbyes, and wishes_

_Authors note- hey everyone! I'm really sorry about that cliffhanger. It could be a case all it's own 'the case of the terrible cliffhanger; in which an author is murdered by her readers for leaving them hanging due to a huge wave of writers block.'_

_Meh, whatever. I hope you like the chapter, and I'll be updating soon, I promise. My exams are currently driving me up the wall though, so I have to work around that. But don't worry! As soon as they're finished, I'll post the next chapter._

_I apologize again for any spelling errors, even though my lovely editor caught most of them. I think._

_Happy to be back, relieved I got to keep the page, livid at the fact that SHERLOCK SEASON 3 WONT COME OUT UNTIL NEXT YEAR, and praying for your patience,_

_Jay _


	12. Baggage Claim

_Baggage Claim_

_In which there is packing, goodbyes, and wishes_

_Several weeks earlier_

Lana shoved the lid down on her suitcase and sat on it. Little pieces of fabric stuck out here and there from the many shirts and pants and jackets she had packed; everything in her closet had fit (with some difficulty) into the black suitcase that she was currently trying to shut.

"Need a hand?"

Emily stuck her head into the room with a grin. Slightly shorter than Lana, with short, cropped brown hair, quick, angular features, and bright, focused eyes, Emily gave the impression of extreme youth despite being quite a bit older than Lana.

Now, Emily helped Lana off the suitcase and wrestled with the zipper. Clothes popped out of the suitcase like a dam breaking free.

"Sheesh, what did you do?" she asked as she turned the suitcase upside down and dumped the clothes back onto Lana's bed.

"I believe in the art of throw and cram," Lana replied as she followed Emily's lead and starting to fold the clothes and pack them tightly into the suitcase alongside her laptops, cameras and pistol.

"That poor suitcase; it suffers every time you get a new assignment."

"It hasn't broken yet," Lana pointed out, sticking her hand under the bed to fish out her Converse.

"Do you have everything else?"

"In my messenger bag."

As Lana continued to pack, Emily picked up the bag lying at the foot of the bed. "Passport, gum, money, papers, notebook, lucky pen, phone and book. Looks like you're set. When's your taxi getting here?"

Lana checked her watch. "Any minute now."

"You really are the most terrible procrastinator."

"And you're no help." Lana threw her single pair of high heels on top of everything else and shut the lid. But as she made to zip up the sides, she found her way blocked by Emily's hand.

"What?"

Emily looked down, her voice soft. "I don't know about this, Lana."

"What are you worried about?" asked Lana as she knocked Emily's hand out of the way. "It's just another trip to London. I've been to the U.K. plenty of times for the paper."

Emily bit her lip. "I don't know. It's just, it's dangerous this time. I mean, there's a serial killer over there and you have to follow him and write about it and all that."

"Don't worry, I won't let you down."

"Just don't go looking for trouble then."

"What sort of trouble? A murderer, a cop, or a European man?"

"All of the above."

"You never let me have any fun."

A car horn honked outside. Lana drew back the curtains and saw the taxi idling in on the curb. Emily zipped up the last of the suitcase, then handed Lana her bag and jacket.

"I expect updates. Lots of them."

"Of course," Lana kissed Emily on the cheek and headed for the door. "Love you, Mom."

"And I love you. See you in six weeks."

Lana paused in the doorway, smiling the cheeky grin that was so like her fathers. "It's just six weeks. What could happen in six weeks?"

….

Present

The dream faded, replaced by image after image, flickering through her unconscious brain like a movie on high speed. The weeks of searching, chasing false leads and dead ends to nowhere across the London underworld. Then the call from Nice; and she had rushed across the channel to her first real lead, only to find the unthinkable.

Her father's mutilated body, cut and broken almost beyond recognition.

There was the blind rage, racing even faster across London in a twisted determination. All of it led to the brass knuckles slamming into her face.

Pain, heat, darkness.

And then there was the light. New flat, new friends, tea at midnight and bullet holes in the wall.

And Sherlock.

He was like a heartbeat now; always there, at the back of her mind, or exploding with emotion and making her blood race. Relentless, quiet, subtle, necessary.

And suddenly he was gone. And Irene was leering at her through the dark.

Lana's eyes snapped open.

For a moment, she was blinded by the bright white light shining directly into her eyes. After a minutes rapid blinking, however, the light separated into the intense triple spotlight of a hospital room. Lana tore her gaze away from its glare and looked down.

Her left arm was a mess of IVs and tubes leading to many ominous-looking monitors. Her right arm was bound in a mass of plaster and gauze, and deep red of burns stretched across her chest like an angry red map. Repulsed, she tore her gaze away from it and looked to her right.

A limp and very asleep John Watson was sitting at her bedside, his head coming to rest on her right hip with surprising weight. Lana had to laugh as she gently reached out and shook him awake. He jerked up, then stretched looked around for a moment before his eyes fell on Lana. It surprised her to notice he seemed shocked to see her sitting there.

"You're awake."

"Where's Sherlock?" she asked impulsively. John caught her by the arm.

"He's fine; we both are. I sent him to go get food."

"Are you sure that's the best idea?" she asked groggily, trying to blink away the pounding that was growing in her head.

"He's barely left this room since we were released from the hospital. I thought he might need the exercise." John checked his watch. "Then again, I did send him to get food more than an hour ago, so I'm not sure what to think."

Lana didn't smile. "How long ago were you two released?"

John's smile faltered.

"Two weeks ago."

"Two weeks? I've been out for two weeks? Oh lord, what's Emily going to think?" Lana buried her face in her knees.

"Emily?" asked John, but Lana barely heard him as she tried to wrap her head around it. Two weeks. She had been out that long; a whole two weeks of her life were gone. She wondered how much had changed; Emily must be panicking by this point, but all the same-

Her thought were rudely interrupted by a loud bang. Lana whipped her head around- an act that sent shocks of aches up her neck and made the headache even worse- to see Sherlock slam the door shut, panting and looking downright terrified. In his hand was a newspaper and he had a fez jammed on his head.

His eyes widened the moment he saw her, and he froze in his tracks.

Lana wanted nothing more than to throw off the covers, get across the room, and plant one on him, but all that came out was a breathless gasp.

"Sherlock."

He looked to respond, ready to say something, when-

"Oi! Where is he?"

A new voice came trailing out of the hallway, loud and pugnacious and clearly annoyed. Quick as a cat, Sherlock threw himself to the ground and rolled under Lana's bed just as the door was opened again, and a red-faced, overweight security guard stuck his waistline into the room.

"Either of you two seen a guy run by here? Tall bloke, dark hair?"

Lana and John just stared at each other, then back at the guard. After a minutes silence, the guard grunted again. "Well, if you see him, be sure to buzz. Damned hooligan's driving everyone up the wall." And with those parting words, the guard shut the door and was gone. John let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"Hooligan?" he asked the man climbing out from under the bed.

"Overreacting." Sherlock responded, dusting himself off and placing the fez on Lana's bedside table. "I was sitting in the hospital café, waiting to order, and I happened to get into a conversation with some gentlemen-"

"You insulted them, didn't you," said John. It wasn't a question.

"Unintentionally." Sherlock shrugged off his coat and placed it in a nearby chair.

"What's with the fez, anyway?" asked Lana.

"Two guards tried to escort me out of the building, so I had to improvise. Paid a man 20 quid for it on my way past. Lovely disguise; I'll have to buy a few more."

"Twenty quid? Sherlock, that…that was all our food money, you complete…" his shoulders slumped in defeat. "You know what? I'll go get us something to eat." John picked up his jacket, rubbed sleep from his eyes and headed for the door. "I'll be back soon."

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Lana had an idea of what might happen, but she didn't expect him to react so quickly.

She barely had time to blink before he was there, holding her arms tightly and staring at her with nothing short of relief.

"You're alive."

"Or we're both dead."

Sherlock frowned. "Then all my data on heaven is completely wrong."

Lana smiled in return. "Why must everything be an experiment to you?" she murmured, sliding closer to him until they were nose to nose. She expected him to return the favor and continue the banter, but instead, Sherlock's eyes clouded over and he released her. After his warmth, the room felt suddenly cold, and she instinctively wrapped herself up further in the sheets, being careful to avoid the burns on her chest. Sherlock was standing beside her bed now, all business and data again. The heart within him had once again been replaced by the hard drive.

"I've already made flight arrangements. As soon as you're fully recovered you can take the next flight home to Denver."

Lana was shocked. After everything that had happened, she couldn't imagine going back to the states. She loved this dark underworld she was slowly growing a part of, and now the man she trusted wanted to get rid of her?

Out of anger more than anything else, she spoke up.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? I'm staying here."

Even to her it sounded pathetic.

"You're not." Sherlock retorted, walking back over to the chair and picking up his fallen coat. When he spoke again, it sounded forced. "It was a mistake to get you involved this far, and I apologize. Don't worry; I'll pay for all the medical bills and your ticket home."

"Sherlock-"

"You really should phone your mother. I've been texting her, so you've been in touch but you're not answering your phone."

"Sherlock, I- wait, you texted my mother? My phone's locked with a password."

"In theory, yes. You and John are both so dependent on security."

He was trying to distract her. She wouldn't let it happen. As she fought to stay focused, Sherlock kept rambling on. "Honestly, I think Emily would be terrified that your phone can be hacked so easily. Besides, you were supposed to return to America more than a month ago. The flight leaves in two weeks and she thinks you've been searching without luck, but-"

"Sherlock."

"You should be well enough to travel within-"

"**Sherlock.**" Lana couldn't take it anymore. She pushed away the blankets and sat up straight, glaring at him with the same fiery determination she had used when they had first met. Sherlock looked at her in surprise as Lana pushed off with her good arm and staggered across the room, dragging the IV with her. It may have only been a few steps, but to Lana, it felt like a mile. After two weeks of no use, her legs were screaming on protest. Face pale, hands shaking, and suffering a major head rush, she steadied herself on the back of the chair and faced him again. She was set on one thing; making this brilliantly ignorant man see that she wasn't going anywhere.

Once she had his attention, Lana continued. "I'm already renting the basement flat. I don't own any other clothes. I am currently three blocks away from an immigration office, and if you think that you can get rid of me by just putting me on a plane, you are sadly mistaken."

Sherlock didn't move, his face a blank slate. Lana pressed on. "Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you two now. I'm perfectly capable of making my own choices," she took a step closer. "and I choose to stay here with you."

He seemed to enjoy picking her up far too much.

Within a moment, she was back in his arms and in his lap on the bed. it didn't matter she was burned, scarred, tired and sore; there wasn't anywhere else she'd rather be than in this dingy hospital room with a man that drove her crazy.

Sherlock looked at her hazily with that lopsided grin she couldn't resist. "Well, I was right."

"What?"

"You're attracted to me."

She scoffed. "I could have told you that."

"And I'm attracted to you."

"I certainly hope so. Does this mean the experiment is a success?"

"I never said you were an experiment" he replied, pulling her hair seductively out of its ponytail.

"Everything's an experiment to you."

"Well, then I suppose I'd call you The experiment."

Lana could almost hear the capitol emphasis on the word. She closed her eyes as Sherlock traced her collarbone with one pale white thumb, memorizing how it felt. It was then that he faltered.

"Is that…"

Lana opened her eyes again and looked down. He had found the burns.

"I'm not perfect, sadly."

"Imperfection is infinitely more interesting." He responded, his thumb still stuck right at the border of pale skin. "I only meant…does it hurt?"

"They're just scars, Sherlock. I can handle it." Lana smiled sadly. "At least this adventure left me with a lasting impression."

"I suppose that's one way to think of it," he agreed, his hand drifting away from the twisted pink skin back up her neck.

She couldn't stand it anymore.

Lana pulled away from his touch and kissed him. And when she felt him kiss back, a single thought shot through her head.

_It's good to be home._

….

The phone played out its little joyful tune; Vivaldi's _primavera. _Started from her book, Emily stood from her seat and strode through the living room into the kitchen. The phone sat in its cradle, vibrating slightly and blaring the caller ID on its minute screen. The moment Emily saw it, her heart almost stopped.

LANA CELL

Heart pounding, hands shaking with excitement and rage, Emily eagerly plucked the phone from the cradle and held it to her ear.

"Lana, sweetheart?"

"Hi Emily, I know it's been a while, I-"

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I'VE BEEN?" it came out louder than expected, but like her daughter, Emily had a way of using volume to get her point across.

"Yes, mom. Calm down; I'm sorry.

…..I have something to tell you. Are you sitting down?"

Emily sat herself down on the counter. "Sitting. What's going on?"

"Well, some things have happened here and I-"

"YOU'RE PREGNANT! YOU'RE PREGNANT AREN'T YOU!" Emily cried, jumping off the counter and starting to pace around the kitchen island.

"Mom, no! I'm not pregnant! Stop pacing and sit down already so I can tell you!"

They knew each other way to well.

Emily stopped pacing, but instead of sitting, she leaned against the counter and spoke in a low, dangerous voice.

"Lana Diane Heart, what is going on?"

"I'm staying here. In London. I've found someone and a nice flat with some friends and I'm staying here."

Emily couldn't speak. She could only sigh and think about Lana. The only reason her daughter had moved in with her was to help her through the messy divorce. Now she was 22, and ready to make a move on her life, but Emily had always been the one thing that kept her coming back. It seemed she now had a reason to stay, and it didn't take long for Emily to reason out what it was.

Emily put the phone back to her ear, took a deep breath, and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"You love him, don't you? The one you're staying with."

"More than I thought I would."

Emily smiled "I expect updates, lots of them."

"Of course, mom. Can you have my stuff shipped here?"

"Sure." Emily pulled out pen and paper from a drawer, the sad smile spreading across her face. "Address?"

"Baker Street. 221B Baker Street."

_End of the Adler Arc_

_Up next- the house_

_In which there is an awkward conversation, a house, and a pregnancy test._

_Well, I figured since my profile is mostly me going on and on about how wonderful Sherlock is, I figured I might as well tell you about myself._

_I'm small, I love singing and acting and I eat top ramen like crazy. I play the tenor saxophone, the clarinet, the guitar, the piano and the ocarina. My favorite color is blue, I love British TV, and I think Dave Matthews is brilliant. I'm the oldest of four, and we all have brown hair and skinny ankles. The weirdest compliment I have ever received was 'I want to lick your feet because you have cute toes'. I think chivalry to an extent is fine, but after that it just becomes stupid. I enjoy writing way too much._

_I'm really glad I got this out online before Valentine's Day. I guess call it a gift? Anyway, I'm super stoked because I'm trying out for a play soon, and hoping for a part. So if I don't update within a couple weeks, that's probably why. I don't plan on leaving this big a gap again, though, since I've already started writing the next chapter anyway. Based on the subheadings I think you can guess where this is headed. If you disapprove, oh well, I hope you like it enough so far. But I don't really feel like killing off Lana and killing of Sherlock is a crime that Moffat couldn't even commit._

_So there's my logic._

_Thanking you for your support, and still praying for your patience,_

_Jay_


	13. the house, pt 1

The House pt. 1

_In which there is fear, a house and a pregnancy test_

Henry Knight was 30 years old and nervous.

But then, Henry was always nervous. Ever since the incidents at Baskervilles, he had never been the same. He had lost his fear of the place, the events that had occurred there, and the absolute terror of dogs; but still, the memories kept creeping back into his brain, igniting new phobias and nervous ticks. Now, Henry drummed his fingers against his leg as the car door shut and the engine gunned. He fought to stay focused, and tried to convince himself this was silly. _I am not afraid of tiny spaces, I am not afraid of tiny spaces, _he mentally chanted.

As usual, his therapist's (now his fiancée's) methods did nothing to settle his nerves as the car sped down the road. Henry closed his eyes and tried not to think about the walls and ceiling of metal and upholstery that were encasing him, sealing him from the outside world. _Calm down, _he thought in earnest, wrestling with himself, _it's only a ten minute drive. Ten minutes and then it's all over._

The car turned right and began it's steep climb up the main road. Henry bounced in his seat, keeping time with every stone and rut the car hit as it sped up the drive, and tried his best to relax. _I am not afraid of tiny spaces, I am not afraid of tiny spaces, I am not-_

**Bang.**

If Henry hadn't been so worried about the car, he might have noticed that his driver, after spending his last two hours of free time in the local pub, was rip-roaring drunk. Henry should have been at least a bit more careful; he had left Peter to his own devices in town, so he should have known he would go and try to drink himself stupid. Peter had drifted into the other lane, slamming the Volvo into the oncoming car.

Henry heard the screeching scream of tearing metal and felt his head slam into the ceiling as the Volvo rolled over. He saw the crushing darkness as the car folded in on itself and fell off the road into the steep ravine beside it.

Henry closed his eyes.

….

John pulled his hood up over his head and went to get the mail. True to form, it was raining, and the wind wasn't improving his mood either. He dodged the other idiots rushing home to get out of cold and opened the mailbox, stuffing the letters and bills under his jacket and dashing back inside.

"John," Sherlock called from up the stairs. "You're finally back."

"He's only been gone about 30 seconds," Lana pointed out. "Pass me the forceps."

"If you're not careful, you'll rip it," came Sherlock's reply.

"You ARE ripping it! Hand them over."

"I'm not trusting you with these."

"Oh, for the love of God."

John reached the second floor landing and pushed his way into the kitchen. Lana and Sherlock were right where he left them; on opposite sides of the table, staring with extreme focus at the dissected sheep lying on their kitchen table. There were intestines hanging in strips across the kitchen like some twisted streamers, and a bucket of blood and stomach acid sat beside Sherlock's left foot. Lana was glaring at Sherlock, who was stubbornly holding a pair of forceps out of her reach. _Love at first specimen _John thought as he watched them bicker. They fought like an old married couple, and yet they had only been officially dating for about a month.

Lana stuck one hand in the sheep's lungs as she made a lunge for the dissection tool across the table.

"Stop being anal and give me the stupid forceps."

"After the last specimen? Not a chance," Sherlock responded, as he pulled her arm out of the sheep innards and handed the forceps to John. John set them back on the table and proceeded to sort the mail as Sherlock pulled Lana in and kissed her on the mouth.

"You're stubbornly attractive, even when covered in sheep gore," he murmured.

Lana, slightly woozy from the kiss, leaned against the table and faced John, who was trying his best to ignore the two of them.

"Anything interesting?"

"Bills, coupons, case letters and… something else." John frowned as he produced a stiff white envelope and held it up for the others to see.

Sherlock, not even bothering to wipe his hands, snatched it out of John's grip, carrying it over the microscope sitting next to the toaster. He turned it over and over in his hands, leaving delicate bloody fingerprints across its white surface, then reached into a nearby drawer, pulled out a steak knife, and slit the envelope open. Holding it at arm's length, Sherlock turned it over.

And out fell…a letter.

It was neatly folded, made out of the same stiff stationary as the envelope and had a message written on it in black ink. Sherlock handled it with the same precision as the envelope, again leaving a trail of sheep gore as he read, his eyes darting across the page so fast, they appeared blurred.

At once, Sherlock refolded the letter and thrust it at John before striding out of the room and flopping onto the living room couch.

"What?" asked John, not bothering to open the letter when he knew Sherlock would repeat it back to him anyway. "Who's it from?"

Sherlock looked up with a sad little grimace.

"Henry Knight is dead."

John's face fell into lines of misery as he thought back to the man they had known for the past several months. He had been awkward, but kind, and John had hoped that he was doing well after the Baskervilles case that had called them to Henry's home months before. "Poor sod," he said, opening the letter anyway and scanning its contents. "How did he…I mean, did he?"

"Suicide? No. Car wreck." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"So why contact you two?" asked Lana as she reached over and plucked the letter from john's grip.

"Apparently, we've been left something in Henry's will." Sherlock answered before John could open his mouth. "Just as long as it's not another worthless item we have to keep to seem polite."

"It was a gift, Sherlock. And the old woman was 90 years old and thought you might like the sweaters."

"We don't need incentives any more than we need knitted clothing. You'll have to tell me how the funeral goes."

"You're coming with us, Sherlock. Whether you want to or not. It's not an option," John said as he walked into the living room with Lana trailing after him. She looked up from the letter to nod grimly.

"John's right- we're all going. I never even met the man and I'm coming."

"What for?" asked Sherlock, picking up a stray book on beekeeping and perusing the pages. "it's not as though a funeral will bring Henry Knight back to life. Thousands of people die every day. Why don't you go to all of their funerals and see what good it does them."

Lana stepped forward and pulled the book from Sherlock's hands, fixing him with her iciest glare and speaking with a voice of utmost calm. "Sherlock, you're coming."

"Make me." he replied coolly.

….

Sherlock pulled at his suit jacket and looked around the room awkwardly. The room was large and echoing, which made the small group of people whisper and move as silently as possible to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

It had been a tiny funeral, with only fourteen people present to say goodbye to Henry. Fourteen people, and eight of them were the friends of Henry's fiancée. Add Sherlock, Lana, John, two gravediggers and a preacher, and the sad little funeral party had broken up and returned to Henry's house for the will reading. It hadn't taken long to process, and they wanted to get everything out of the way quickly, so they had ushered the mourners in like sheep and got down to business.

"If I could have your attention, please," said the mousey old man at the head of the room, his high, reedy voice bouncing off the walls and drawing everyone to attention. Slowly, the chatter died and the mourners all faced the speaker as he unfolded the sheet of paper and gave a small dry cough.

"Last will and testament of Henry Angelo Knight. Let's see… to my beloved fiancée, Sasha Mortimer, I leave my fortunes, ownership of my—"

Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was too busy analyzing each of the mourners in turn and deciding on the total cost of their clothing, along with their habits, family life, and food preference. It was much more interesting than hearing what Henry had left behind now that he was so dearly departed. It was mundane and boring, and Sherlock was starting to feel like this had been a waste of time.

"To Mister Sherlock Holmes-" John elbowed him in the ribs, and Sherlock came back down to earth.

"I leave you my home here in Dartmoor, as I think you will come to use and enjoy it as you see fit."

Sherlock knew he wasn't hearing things, but the instinctive side of his brain told him to review what he had just heard. He went over it three times, each time listening to every syllable, every word break.

Henry had left him his house.

This was worse than the sweaters.

At once, Sherlock stood up, slipped on his coat, threw on his scarf, and walked deliberately out of the room. The slam of the door was followed by ringing silence for about three seconds before John and Lana finally stood up and walked out after him.

"Why are we following him, again?" asked Lana as she cringed under the combined glare of a dozen mourners.

"He'll do something stupid if we don't keep an eye on him," John replied.

"Like?"

"I'm not sure." They broke through the front doors of the house and into the squinting sunlight. Blinking white spots out of her eyes, Lana made her way over to the idling black land rover they had driven up from London. She hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, and then knocked against the glass.

Sherlock sat behind the wheel, looking moody and drained and slapped two nicotine patches onto his arm. Lana tried to open the door, but Sherlock had locked himself in the Land Rover's dark interior. Her patience wearing thin, Lana knocked harder, and then shouted at him through the glass.

"What? What happened in there? There's no need to act like you're above all this."

"Who's acting?" came the muffled reply. "Now go away. I need to think."

Lana turned to look at John and gestured for the car keys, hoping to knock some sense into her stubbornly sociopathic boyfriend. However, after about a minute's frantic searching, John shook his head in defeat; Sherlock had snatched them off of him.

"He did it again."

Lana smacked her hand on the hood of the land rover, sending an echoing bang into the cold air around them, and Sherlock had the grace to look up.

John spoke up now, getting closer to the car and praying that Sherlock wouldn't floor it and potentially run them over. "Come on, Sherlock. You're acting like a kid."

"You're acting like my brother. Go away."

"I rented the car. Either let us in or get out."

Two minutes of silence and glaring, and finally Sherlock unlocked the door. "What's the point of funerals anyway? Yes, let's all stand around and cry over a slowly decaying body."

"Sherlock, behave. You were left Henry's home. Be happy about it."

"What am I supposed to do with a house, anyway?"  
>"I don't know, live in it?" Lana suggested sarcastically as she climbed into the backseat.<p>

"We should sell it and buy some new lab equipment. There's some fantastic new products on the market I'd love to get my hands on, and-"

"We aren't selling Henry's house for lab equipment," said John, not even bothering to listen to the rest of Sherlock's sentence. "I agree with Lana; having a safe house is probably a good idea if you're going to be doing something stupid. Besides, it'll give you a chance to disappear should the need ever arise."

"Why would I need a safe house?" asked Sherlock innocently.

"So you don't have to spend two weeks camped out in a hotel so Lestrade won't find you. Like what happened last time."

"I don't see why he was so angry."

"Liar." John held out his hand. "Keys, now. I'll drive us home and we can talk about the house on the way."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and handed over the keys to the land rover, and then walked suddenly back into the house behind them.

"Where are you going?" asked Lana from her seat inside the car.

Sherlock didn't respond. However, he returned about four minutes later, holding another set of keys.

"What was that about?" asked John.

"My new house keys." He explained with a grimace.

John rolled his eyes and gunned the engine. "Someday, you'll thank Henry for this."

"I doubt it." Sherlock replied as he slapped on another nicotine patch.

….

Two weeks later

Lana threw some clothes into a duffel bag and tossed in her converse for good measure, zipped it shut and loped back up the steps. John was already on the landing, slipping on a pair of shoes and checking his laptop at the same time.

"Need a hand?"

"No, I'm fine. Got everything?"

"Definitely." Lana pushed some hair from her face and sighed. "Remind me again what he did this time?"

"I don't fully know myself, but I think it has something to do with Mycroft, CCTV cameras and two cans of spray paint."

Lana stared. "Let's just get in the car."

Sherlock was already behind the wheel when they ran outside, searching for any signs of Scotland Yard or Mycroft's cronies. The streets were empty; though that didn't mean much. Lana dashed onto the sidewalk and threw herself into the land rover; John followed quickly, and Sherlock immediately hit the gas.

"Are you planning on telling us what you did?" asked Lana to the back of Sherlock's head.

"No."

She sighed and watched the cars and shops rush past.

This was going to be a long weekend.

_Up next- the house, part 2_

_In which there is (still) fear, a house, and a pregnancy test._

_Hello everyone._

_Sorry this took so long, I've been alternating between dancing around like an idiot and procrastinating all week._

_The results are in from the auditions, and YAY! I GOT A PART! I'm also a chicken. Which makes me feel kind of bad about the chicken sandwich I had for lunch today. I didn't expect to turn into a cannibal so soon._

_My lovely editor Pond got the lead role! YAY FOR POND! _

_Anyway, back to the Flatmates. _

_Our lovely little trio has gotten themselves into a spot of trouble, but, as you can guess from the subtitle, this is just the start of their worries. I'm not planning on going overboard, but I hope you can bear with me for a little bit. I'll try to update soon._

_Yes, I know cutting this chapter into three parts is a sign of me turning into a huge troll. I'm sorry advance. BTW, does anyone know when season is coming to the US? Because I need to get it on DVD soon or my brain will explode._

_Still dancing like an idiot, and praying for your patience,_

_Jay_


	14. the house, pt 2

The House, pt 2

In which there is still fear, a house, and a pregnancy test.

John slammed the trunk shut and heaved his bag onto his shoulder. He wasn't entirely sure what he had grabbed in his haste, but the weight gave him the idea he had packed enough to last the week at least. Out of habit, he felt his pockets for his phone, wallet, and pistol; the three things he absolutely could not live without.

Sherlock jumped out of the Land Rover, his coat collar turned up in his usual attempt to look cool. With his phone in hand, he slammed the door shut and headed up toward the house, sending a stream of spiteful text messages as he went. John rolled his eyes; Sherlock had been moody for the entire drive, refusing to voice any information as to why they were even here in the first place, and other than a storm of texts from both Lestrade and Mycroft, he still had no idea what had caused Sherlock to drop everything and drive them out to the middle of nowhere.

His phone buzzed again, and John pulled it out with a sigh, staring at the tiny screen

_Tell him he's going to be arrested if he doesn't apologize. _

_MH_

Yet another cryptic message. John hit delete with a groan.

"What are we supposed to do now?" asked Lana as she clambered out of the backseat. Staring after Sherlock's retreating form with a bemused expression, she pulled her long brown hair back into its usual ponytail.

"Y'know, to be honest, I don't know myself. I'm starting to think we might be arrested for harboring a wanted fugitive."

Lana smiled grimly. "I think if they really wanted to have him arrested, they would have found us by now."

"You've got a point," John replied, pulling Lana's duffel bag out of the seat and handing it to its owner, "Come on. Let's get inside before he breaks something."

...

Their footsteps echoed off of everything as they entered. The house was much as it had been when they had last been here; lonely, open and deadly quiet. All in all, it was much too big for just one person. At least, that's what John thought as he took a few steps into the foyer and dropped the bags of clothes with a muffled thump. He stared appreciatively up at the high ceiling, dotted with light. Even though their visit here was far from homey, John felt a wave of comfort in the sight of the light dancing on the wall, reflected a thousand times in the windows above.

"Get in here, you two, we haven't get all day," Sherlock called from the direction of the kitchen.

Lana rolled her eyes. "And we're thrown out of Heaven right into Hell." she muttered under her breath so only she and John could hear as they wandered out of the foyer and into the hallway toward the kitchen.

Sherlock was seated at the table, staring out at the woods beyond the glass door. Despite the fact that she was completely pissed off at him, Lana had to appreciate his profile against the muted light; his curly hair, long nose, and overall handsome features were thrown in and out of focus as the light filtered in through the trees.

And then she blinked, and Sherlock was sitting in front of them; her boyfriend (she cringed at the word) who drove her absolutely insane and had thrown her and their good friend into a black Land rover and driven them to a house in the middle of nowhere to escape potential arrest for vandalism.

Now was no time to admire his looks.

Lana fixed him with a glare as she and John advanced.

"Anything you'd like to share with us, Sherlock?" John asked, drumming his hands on the polished wood of the table.

"Mmm…" his friend replied, still not looking at him but taking a sudden interest in the branches waving outside. "…no."

"We're not letting you get off that easy," Lana added, stepping forward as well. "Will you stop acting like a child?"

Sherlock finally had the grace to turn from the window and survey their set faces. "Really, you two. You're overreacting. It's not as though we're going to get arrested or anything-"

"oh no?" asked John, holding out his phone as yet another angry text from Mycroft flashed across the screen.

"Let my brother blow off his steam, and for now we can stay somewhere secluded. It's not my fault he's acting like a hateful walrus."

_There's no way to win with this guy_ Lana thought in defeat. Since she could do nothing but admit Sherlock was right (again) she eased herself into a nearby chair and faced him with a spiteful look that told him he wasn't forgiven yet.

"You see? It's much nicer to just trust me and admit I know what I'm doing." Sherlock said snidely as he turned back to the window.

She couldn't stand it. Sitting in the middle of a stranger's kitchen, with one man who was driving her crazy and another who was standing there like an idiot. The chair creaked as she stood and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, looking surprised.

"Out." She said curtly. "I need some space to myself."

Through the hall way, into the foyer, and Lana stepped out onto the driveway in a flurry of blue jacket. The wind had died down, and everything was still as she skirted the outside of the house and headed for the woods.

She had barely been walking for fifteen seconds when she heard him coming after her.

"I don't want to see you," she called back to him.

"I'm not having you get lost in the woods. Your sense of direction is dreadful," Sherlock replied as he adjusted his scarf and fell into step beside her. Their banter carried them into the trees and out of view of the house. Lana only vaguely noticed the trees getting thicker around them as they moved deeper into the woods; the argument propelled her along without conscious thought of where they might be headed.

Suddenly, Sherlock sank into silence and stopped. Lana looked up, surprised, and surveyed their surroundings.

They were standing at the edge of the clearing, wrapped in mist and greenery everywhere. In front of them was a gaping cavern cut into the hillside; a huge cave that led into blackness. The whole place was full of an eerie silence and left her with a feeling of…something… in the pit of her stomach; not powerful enough to be dread, but not something she could brush off either.

"What is this place?" she asked softly.

"Dewer's Hollow." Sherlock stepped over a fallen log and stood in the center of the clearing. Lana stayed just behind him, afraid of what might come next.

"Why here?" she prompted.

"To address fear, we have to go back to the source," he replied, not turning, not bothering to look at anything at all.

"Fear? What would you have to fear from this place?"

"I know you can feel it, Lana. That sense of rising panic, the feeling of fear building inside."

"How…could you know-"

"This place was made to tamper with our darkest fears. Neurotoxins in the air, made by some Americans scientists as a hallucinogen that triggers the fear center of our brain to go into overdrive. John and I solved the case a while ago, but there are still some traces of it left here."

He sighed. "If I'm going to face fear, I might as well conquer it in its most terrifying form."

"I don't follow."

"You're hopeless."

"No, you're just being vague. Are you going to explain or continue acting like I'm supposed to know everything you do? I'm not you, and I never will be. Nor will I be any closer to understanding you until you start talking." Lana was surprised by the sharpness of her own voice.

"It's none of your concern. Go back to the house." Sherlock replied, still not looking at her.

"I didn't ask you to bring me here!" Lana shouted at his back.

"Then go back to the house and leave me alone."

"Make me," she growled, daring him to look at her.

Finally, he turned around, and the silence was heavy as they glared at each other.

Lana knew there was no way to win. She couldn't understand what was going through Sherlock's head, but clearly this was getting her nowhere. So she turned on her heel, stepped over the fallen log again, and strode out of the hollow.

It was odd, but Lana thought there had been something else in Sherlock's eyes besides cold anger. It was almost…sadness. She had never seen him look at her so intensely; not since their first meeting, when he had picked her brain with a single glance. What was strange was how strongly she felt about that.

And what was stranger was her reaction to the thought that came immediately after.

It wasn't that Lana had never experienced sexual need before; she just didn't expect it to blast into her subconscious like some sort of twisted bomb. All she knew was that it propelled her to get as far away from Sherlock as she could. She couldn't face him now, when he could have clearly seen that she had been hit by a huge sex drive as clearly as Sherlock could see her hair was brown. Sure as apples were apples, it was written all over her God damned obvious face.

Once out of sight of the hollow, Lana started to run.

….

Dinner was quiet and slightly strained. Lana ate little and said less, prompting John into an uneasy silence. He watched her from across the table as she pushed the pork across her plate.

"Hey," he said.

She looked up. "Mm? Sorry, what?"

John could tell she was a million miles away, but he needed to make a fast decision, so he pushed forward. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs, I think. He got back a little after I did." Lana looked down at her food again.

It was odd; Lana clearly had something on her mind, something she didn't want to talk about.

And John had a pretty good idea what it was.

_About time, _he thought.

Out of tact more than anything, John made his choice. "Right, I'm going into town."  
>"What? What for?" she seemed surprised.<p>

"I just thought, well… I'd give you two some, you know," he swallowed, searching for the right word, "space."

Lana stared at him. "Whatever you say. Pick up some milk, then, we'll need it tomorrow."

John nodded and left the room. Lana heard him wrestle with his jacket and the door open and shut.

She took longer than she needed to on the dishes, boxed the leftovers, and then headed upstairs. Two doors down, pausing only to grab a change of clothes, and then into the bathroom. She didn't dare look in the mirror; the sight of herself would bring on a panic attack for sure. So before she could lose her nerve, Lana started the hot water and stepped into the shower.

Her thought process took longer than she thought, and by the time she got out, her hands were pruned and the water was bordering on cold. Grabbing a towel, she dried off, then changed into her usual t-shirt and holed sweat pants. Her damp hair was in its usual ponytail. Everything seemed normal on the outside; but inside Lana's mind was in freefall as she headed back down the hall and opened the door to her bedroom.

She looked up to see Sherlock was standing on the balcony, staring out at the night, and her heart seemed to fail. Right then and there, she almost lost her nerve.

Because let's face it; how many times in your life have you wanted to have sex with someone you both loved and wanted? Lana had experienced both but never at the same time. Loved? Sure. Wanted? Definitely. But both? Never. And the feeling of it was new and terrifying and hit Lana like an earthquake, shaking her small frame and causing her to fall back against the wall.

Lana never knew what gave her the courage to shut the door, pad across the room, and join him outside. Maybe it was Sherlock's confidence getting to her, or her own strong head.

Or maybe it was an estrogen surge. Lana wasn't sure.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Stargazing."

"I never thought you would enjoy something like that."

"Pointless appreciation."

"Poetic. And is there any particular reason you're in my room?"

"I needed to speak with you."

"About?"

"Your fears."

"What fears?" she scoffed.

"The fears you have in general. In particular, your fears in relation to me."  
>Lana paled. "That's none of your concern."<p>

"Of course it is. Wouldn't anyone be concerned if their girlfriend was afraid of sleeping with him?"

Her heart stopped. Sherlock turned to face her, staring questioningly as she searched for something to say. "What makes you think that?"  
>His eyes flashed. "You've been interested in me since we met, but over the past month you've become more meticulous about how you look; a little more makeup or touchups in your hair, you contradict me even more now, showing you have something on your mind. And now, standing here, I can tell your pulse is up ten clicks, your eyes are getting wider and the pupils are dilating, and you're shaking. I know I'm not wrong."<p>

He took a step closer.

"I admit, I've noticed similar symptoms," he paused, as if afraid of her reaction. "In myself. My heart rate is increasing, my palms are starting to shake and I'm having trouble focusing on anything but what's right in front of me."

Closer.

"Conclusion."

They were practically nose to nose now.

"You have piqued my curiosity, and have pulled by brain in an unknown direction. I'm having a hard time knowing-"

"Shut up."

He stared.

"What?"  
>"Shut up." Lana said, stronger now, starting directly at him. "Sherlock Holmes, just shut the hell up and kiss me already."<p>

Nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of Sherlock's mouth on hers, or his arms as her lifted her up and brought her back into the room. There wasn't fear any more. It was something else altogether; something that had eclipsed her rising panic and sealed it away.

Because as Sherlock slid her shirt off, leaving a trail of goose bumps across her skin, the one thing Lana could wonder was why it had taken them so long to get here in the first place.

….

John took another drink and glanced around the inn. It was much the same as before, locals chatting it up in the corner and the barman eyeballing him as he ordered another glass.

"Whots with you, mate?" he asked, and large beefy man with little neck and a lot of beard. "Girl trouble?"

"No," John admitted, "my flat mates got a girl over."

The barman laughed. "New girlfriend?"

"No, they've been together about a month or so."

"Moves slowly he does."

John chuckled. "He's never been one to move very fast."

But as John took another swig, he realized that was just about the biggest lie in the world.

….

It was the cold that woke Lana up. She opened her eyes and was hit by another cool breeze from the still open door. Blinking in the light, she raised herself up on one arm and looked around. Light was filtering in through the trees, playing with the dust in the air, and everything was quiet. Lana felt a sense of calm as she turned around.

Her clothes were in a pile at the foot of the bed, and Sherlock's arm was still stretched across her stomach. Even in sleep, he had refused to let go of her hips. Lana smiled down it him; he seemed so innocent lying there. She never would have guessed he was the bane of her existence. Softly, she reached over and brushed some stray curls from his face.

Another breeze blew through the room and she shivered. She would have gladly stayed in that moment, playing with Sherlock's lovely hair and just drinking in the general sight of him, but there was also the fact that the window was still wide open from last night and she was absolutely freezing. Lana carefully lifted Sherlock's arm back onto the bed, and slipped out onto the floor. She pulled on her sweats, then her shirt, and headed downstairs.

The house was silent as she padded down the hallway, giving her time to drift back to the night before. She couldn't believe what they had done. It had been beautiful, and intimate, and had left more with her than Lana had bargained for. She wasn't sure what to say about it; much like everything else about Sherlock, having sex with him had left her at a loss for words. The only thing she could truly decide on was to keep quiet about it to John; she didn't want to drag him into the warped world of her relationships more than he already was.

And then she opened the door and saw John sitting at the kitchen table.

Lana tried to put on a poker face and reached for a coffee mug before sitting down opposite John at the table. Neither of them met each other's eyes as they tried to think of the most tactful way to address the elephant in the room. All Lana knew was that her own thought process must have been changed by last night, because her thoughts were flying around in a formation similar to this;

_He knows. He must. How could we have been so- We're screwed. Just, breath, normally. I suppose be direct, or something. How should I know what to say to my flat mate about sex with my other flat mate? I guess I should have seen this coming, I'm such an idiot; He's an idiot. Great, now I even _sound _like him._

John cleared his throat. "So, um, are you ok?"

It was actually a better way to start the conversation then Lana could have bargained for, but being so lost in her thoughts, she let the opportunity slip by and simply chose to be blunt as a spoon.

Holding her expression perfectly, Lana looked up. "I've got a hickey the size of a plum on my collarbone."

John spit coffee so far across the table that drips fell onto the tile floor.

Lana started laughing. The awkwardness of the room faded slightly as John joined in. For a moment, everything was perfect.

And then the door opened behind her and Sherlock walked in.

OK, let's stop and think about this for a moment. You're sitting there, talking to your friend about sex, when the person known for making things awkward walks into the room (it also doesn't help if said person isn't the same person you just had sex with). There are occasions when the awkward friend has the capacity to keep quiet, but come on, this is Sherlock we're talking about.

For Lana, it wouldn't have been quite so awkward if it weren't for a couple of things.

A) The obvious.

B) John had been there (for obvious reasons) and

C) Sherlock was completely naked besides the large white sheet he had wrapped around himself like a make shift bathrobe.

Look, it wasn't like Lana was uncomfortable with the fact Sherlock was wearing a sheet- he had done it before and hello! she had already seen him naked- but the fact that he was both wrapped in the sheet and walking in on her conversation with their friend about last night's events kind of drove the point home that any hope for them keeping this out of John's life was nonexistent.

Anyway, Sherlock was still wrapped in a bed sheet and blinking sleep out of his eyes and rudely walking in on their conversation. He skidded to a halt, however, when he saw John and Lana together at the table. Quickly, Sherlock looked from Lana, then to John, and you could almost see the data running through his head, sifting through pros and cons before he turned and walked quickly out of the room.

John snickered softly as the door swung shut.

"Sherlock, you know there's no reason to be embarrassed about sex, right?" Lana yelled, not bothering to get up.

"Piss off," floated down the stairs.

Lana grinned and took another sip of coffee.

….

A week later, Lana started throwing up.

_Up Next- the house, part three_

_In which ends the fear, the house and the pregnancy test._

_Authors Note-_

_Hey guys._

_It's me, as usual. I'm sitting in an airport terminal, waiting to catch my flight New York City! Super excited, I'm going to see some Broadway shows and take some pictures, and hopefully finish the next chapter. I'm almost done with it as it is. _

_Long, this chapter was long. Don't worry, nothing too drastic will happen next chapter, and I'll be sure to keep it short and sweet. I hope you guys will stick with it for a little while longer. _

_Must dash, I have a flight to catch _

_Airborne, and praying for your patience,_

_Jay_


	15. the house, pt 3

The House, Pt 3

_In which ends the house, the fear and the pregnancy test_

Lana didn't consider herself to be extremely religious.

So what was she doing here, in the little church down the road from 221B, surrounded by soft candles and hard wooden pews?

Oh, yeah.

She was praying for her deliverance.

It hadn't occurred to Lana to ask for spiritual guidance until now. Not until she had rolled out of bed that morning and was violently sick. Not since she was eating like crazy and then suddenly not eating at all. Not since she was three days late.

Not since she started having vivid nightmares about having a very distinct bulge between her hips.

Lana brushed stray hairs from her eyes and looked down, memorizing the feel of her knees digging into the carpet of the floor. She pushed her thoughts toward heaven and hoped that after three years, God was still willing to listen.

_God, please don't let me be pregnant. Please don't let Sherlock find out that I'm throwing up and eating weird and not sleeping. He can't know; I can't hurt him like that. So please, please, please don't let me be pregnant, for both our sakes. Please don't make me hurt him._

_I don't want to lose him._

She started at the feel of a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked to her feet. For a moment, she was sure that God was trying to destroy her and that Sherlock had found her already.

But it was John, with a worried expression and eyes full of bottled up questions.

"What are you doing here?"

"How did you find me?" Lana didn't dare meet his eyes yet.

"Missus Hudson. She said you went out and had asked for directions to the nearest church. So I got worried." John budged her further into the pews and took a seat beside her. His expression hardened as he looked at her; she still didn't meet his eyes as he reached out and took her arm.

"Lana? Are you alright? Why are you crying?"

It wasn't until then that she realized tears were tracing little streams down her cheeks.

John was starting to feel awkward, but he held his composure and pressed on. "Lana?"

She finally looked up, her eyes brimming over, and felt the weakest she had since her father disappeared.

"i think I'm pregnant."

John paled. Lana watched as he turned white, then green, and then back to white. Then he grabbed her arm and marched them both out of the church.

Lana doubted she would be coming back any time soon.

…..

The café was small and cramped, but it was noisy and smelled like espresso, and it was the last place Sherlock would think to look for them.

Both being human, they ordered food and toyed with it until it turned cold; the same as most people would when they discuss unplanned pregnancy.

"Are you sure?" asked John for the fifth time.

"I already said I don't know," Lana replied. "It's too early to tell. I've never been pregnant so I don't know if this is a virus or…something else."

She felt another breakdown coming and purposefully took an overlarge gulp of coffee.

John leaned forward.

"Look, I understand the reasoning behind not telling Sherlock yet, but what are you going to do if you turn out to be… you know."

"You're a doctor, John. At least use the word. Pregnant. If I turn out to be pregnant."

"Right," said John. He still looked shell-shocked, as though the news that his friend was possibly pregnant had rocked him as hard as a barrel of C-4. He wrestled with his composure and fixed Lana with his gaze.

"Lana, what did you think was going to happen?"

"How do you do something like this? I didn't expect it; trust me. God, what's Sherlock going to say?"

"What he says isn't really our concern right now."

Lana desperately wanted to disagree, but her thought process was ruined by the reminder of her mother's favorite saying.

'_We can't change the past. We can't alter the future. Still, that doesn't mean we can't fix the mess we're in right now.'_

John coughed, and Lana refocused.

"Well, what do you plan to do?"

"I…I don't know. I mean I've given it a lot of thought, but I don't think I came up with anything useful."

"Well, I can see why his reaction would be holding you back, but I don't think you should be as worried as you are."

"Why the hell not?" Lana couldn't believe her ears.

"Because focusing too hard on it will take away from how you feel about it. this is your burden to bear."

"Wait, wait. What do you mean, how I'm reacting to it?"

"All we've discussed so far is what you think he's going to do."

"Isn't it as much of his concern as mine?"

"Not even close. You're  the potential mother. You're the one making the choice in the end."

Lana sighed. "I know I shouldn't worry about it, but he seems so…so…"

"Sure of himself?" John prompted.

"Yeah."

"But since when have you ever cared about what he thinks?"

"Since I found out I might be carrying his child."

"Even so, Lana, the whole thing seems a lot more confusing when we add Sherlock to the mix."

"Just because he's a wild card doesn't mean that I won't consider the outcomes."

John mulled this over, stirring his coffee and staring into the black spiraling whirlpool. Finally, when the drink had settled, he looked up. "Ok, here's what I recommend. We both keep quiet until we know for sure. And then you tell him."

"Even if I'm not pregnant?"

"Especially then." John reached out and took her arm. "Sherlock needs to know you two have to be careful."

Lana grimaced. "It's a lovely thought, but I highly doubt he'll listen."

A waiter stopped at their table and handed them the check. John took it and pulled some notes from his jacket, then handed the check and the cash back to the waiting young man, who smiled and left the table.

"Thank you."

John looked at her, surprised. "What? What for?"

"For wanting to help."

John smiled and helped her into her jacket. "Don't mention it. We're friends; I'd hope you would trust me when stuff gets…complicated."

"Complicated, huh?" asked Lana as they stepped from the steamy café onto the rainy street. "I suppose that's a huge understatement for it."

….

John had gone to Sarah's. Missus Hudson was out, off somewhere without a fridge full of thumbs and boys who ruined her walls.

And Lana was stuck on the couch, with Sherlock in a nearby chair. There was no escape now; if she tried to leave, he would just strike up a conversation as an excuse to keep her there. The tension in the room was stretching tighter with every passing second, a rubber band of emotion that was almost ready to snap.

The skull watched their silence with a mild interest.

The clock ticked.

Sherlock turned another page of his novel, and grew instantly bored. However, instead of tossing the book away as he usually did, Sherlock proceeded to pick out every grammatical error, plot hole and character flaw in the novel.

"So, Lana, how was lunch with John?" he asked as he counted misplaced commas and apostrophes.

"Hm? Oh yeah, it was fine. How did you even- "

"Happened to be passing by. So mundane of you to choose a place that's so crowded."

"Ok, admit it. Why are you spying on me?"Lana asked as she turned to face him.

"Why do you think?'

"So you admit you've been spying on me."

"Oh, I think we're both aware I've been spying on you. Stop being boring and think; why would I want to spy on my girlfriend?"

"You think I'm cheating?" Lana snarled.

"Please, I'd be able to tell if you were cheating," Sherlock scoffed. "No, I think there's something big you're not telling me. Not a work problem; you haven't been on your phone or computer all day, not family, either; Emily called earlier and it's the same as always, and like I said, there's no signs of you having an affair on either you or John."

"Of course you figured it would be John," she muttered. "Look, if you were concerned, you should have just said something."

Sherlock barked out a laugh and tossed his book aside, then picked up his nearby laptop and began typing some unknown message to a nameless recipient. "We both know that if I ever bothered to ask what you were hiding from, you'd just say 'nothing' in that annoyingly distant tone of yours and then leave the flat for a few hours- don't deny it, you've done it before- so there's no point in asking if you won't tell me willingly, you're too-"

"I think I'm pregnant."

She hadn't meant for it to come out so suddenly. It just sort of slipped out.

The typing ceased.

"What?"

He seemed to go into a state of shock; his face frozen in a look bordering on complete surprise and horror. Lana stared at him, waiting for a response, but all Sherlock seemed capable of doing was turn mechanically back to his laptop and resume typing like a madman.

"How long?" came the hoarse response.

"About three weeks."

"You've been pregnant for three weeks and you didn't say anything?" There was a short, but defined pause as Sherlock processed the news. "Does John know?"

Lana didn't respond.

"Is he the father?"  
>"What? NO! God, Sherlock, no. he's just been helping me figure things out and- and besides I may not be pregnant-"<p>

"But?"

She took a deep breath. "But, there's a definitely that possibility."

Sherlock hadn't regained any color to his face yet. He was as white as the skull that was viewing their little escapade with a quiet amusement. It had learned by now not to speak unless spoken too; and only when Sherlock was half-hallucinating and desperately in need of advice.

Sherlock had fallen into a stony silence. Lana knew it was dangerous to say something now; the look in his eyes was pure murder. But she knew she had to talk to him now more than ever.

_Please, God, let him understand._

"I didn't want to say anything until I knew for certain. And, well, I can't know for certain until after I miss a period, but you were spying on me and it's freaking me out and I- Sherlock?"

But it was over. She could tell it was over. He was past listening and seemed to be turning into something Lana had only ever heard about; a rising wave of uncontrollable anger.

"Tell me, Lana, what were you planning to do if you do turn out to be pregnant? Did you even think about it? Do you ever think?You're just ordinary. You're an ordinary girl wrapped in her own thoughts and you didn't stop to think about the consequences of-"

"Well, NEITHER DID YOU!" the pitch rose to a perfect scream that tore at her throat. "This is as much on you as it is on me now, and neither of us can just walk away from this- _where are you going?"_

He was halfway down the stairs before she caught him. He was pulling on his jacket and his arm was out behind him and she latched on like it was a lifeline. His head snapped around to face her, and the temperature dropped ten degrees from the icyness of their stares.

"Since when. Does the great Sherlock Holmes. Run. From. His. Problems." Lana hissed.

"Sometimes running," Sherlock replied, "Is the only way to get rid of a dangerous disadvantage. I've had enough of taking risks."

"You don't mean-"

"Think, Lana. Use your head for once. This stupidity is repelling."

She couldn't feel it when he wrenched his arm from her grip, couldn't hear it as the door slammed shut.

She didn't feel the steps beneath her as she sank down, nor did she feel the roughness of denim as she pressed her face into her jeans.

Everything had turned to ice and stone.

….

Three days, and not a word.

John had texted, but the results weren't good.

WHERE ARE YOU?  
>-JOHN<p>

Was met with

GO STICK YOUR HEAD IN THE TOASTER.

SH

Lana stayed locked in her room.

John felt as lonely now as he had in Afghanistan; a million miles away from anyone he knew.

So he called Sarah.

She was a good girlfriend. They had had their differences, a messy breakup, repaired work relationship, and somehow they were back together again. A little below his height, she took the liberties of good heels and a taller boyfriend. Her hair was recently short, a soft chestnut brown, and eyes to match. Sarah was sarcastic, but kind, and she loved to laugh. John felt lucky.

However, there was one thing Sarah was not, and that was subtle.

John had barely poured them drinks and sat down across from her when she moved in for the kill.

"Where is she?"

John blinked, and Sarah sighed, apparently appalled that John was incapable of keeping up with her female mind and general thought process. "Lana. Where is she, John?"

"What? Oh, downstairs."

Sarah stood, kissed his cheek, and handed him her glass. "I'll be right back. Five minutes."

The stairs creaked as she moved down stairs, and once again, John was alone in the flat.

The skull eyed him severely, and John settled in for a conversation with him/her/it.

_At least someone's willing to talk to me._

….

She wasn't sulking.

The room was too neat for her to be sulking.

It wasn't that Sarah had incredible deduction powers; she was a female, a feminist who had done her fair share of sitting in her room, depressed and brain dead. Lana had cleaned the room, made the bed, and was currently sitting on the decaying chest at the end of the bed, staring at the dust swirling through the air the way a cat watches mice; eager to swoop down and get rid of them.

Clearly she wasn't depressed.

Sarah sat down next to her. She wasn't sure how to place her words, but she knew she had to tread carefully or Lana would snap.

"How long until you know?"

"A most, a day." Still all Sarah could see was the back of Lana's ponytail.

Sarah slid closer.

"Lana, what happened?"  
>"I don't know, Sarah," Lana replied as she turned. Sarah saw the face of her friend, a thousand years old. "He just… left." She chuckled darkly. "I must have really scared him, huh? To think the idea that he had gotten me pregnant scared him that badly."<p>

"He's a boy; they bolt at the sight of commitment."

Lana shook her head. "That's the thing; Sherlock never runs from anything he's committed to. I mean, its part of his job. So it makes me wonder," Her voice broke, and she trembled. "it makes me wonder if he was really that committed to me."

Sarah paused, and then pushed her piece forward.

"Do you know what Sherlock was like when I first met him?"

Lana shook her head.

"He was the most obnoxious, sociopathic git I ever met. He was rude, and selfish, and had no idea how to act in public. I had known him for maybe twenty-four hours and the next thing I knew, John and I were being held captive by Chinese gangsters.

"I'm not saying he's any better now, Lana. But you don't know him like John does. Or even like I do. You see a side, hardly anyone sees."

"Then how do you know about it?"

"He tries to hide it, but it's seeping into his sociopath side. He cares for you, like he cares for John. Not the same way, of course, but he cares. Trust me."

Lana smiled, and then suddenly doubled over and ran out of the room.

"Lana? Are you alright?"

There was a minute's silence; and then Lana's high, pealing laugh echoed through the basement.

_She's lost it._ Sarah thought, as she stepped out of the room and down the hall toward the source of the noise.

Lana was leaning against the doorframe, her face unknotted into lines of relief.

Sarah's eyes widened. "Are you…"

"Yep." Lana held up the tampon case and wiggled it under Sarah's nose.

I highly doubt two girls have ever laughed and hugged so hard because one of them had started their period.

Sarah smiled, and then pulled out her phone. She pressed it into Lana's palm.

"Well then, bring him back."

….

PLEASE COME HOME.

L

Sherlock stood in the middle of the aisles, staring at his phone. The lights were over-bright, and glare was dreadful, but he could still see the words flashing across his screen.

He felt himself at the crossroads, the fork in the road that he had been dodging for the past three days. Three days of hiding in a new flat, solving minor cases, inventing, trying heroin and generally doing anything he could to get his mind off of Lana's _damned face_.

He had caught two robbers and a murderer.

_Her face was still there._

He had thought up new ways to defeat enemies using bees. More specifically, bee stings.

_Her damned beautiful face._

Sherlock felt weak; worse, he felt _bested._ Because no matter how he looked at it, Lana was _right._ And he hated that.

Or maybe he loved it.

This was turning into a case all its own.

He ran data as he selected his purchases, considered facts as he reached the self checkout, and analyzed the information as he plodded six blocks back through the ever-present London rain.

Sherlock had eight theories by the time he reached the flat. He let himself in and, without looking, headed downstairs.

221B breathed a sigh of relief.

….

_Don't ask Sherlock what happened when he came back._

_Just don't._

_Because if anyone dares to ask, they are either going to get slapped, slashed, or shot at until they stop asking and are fleeing up the street shouting and raving about the maniacs living in 221B._

_I can say there was crying, and slapping, and a fair amount of general insult throwing._

_And yes, there was some snogging, too._

_Those two are just ADORABLE, aren't they?_

_I wish I could say more, but sadly, there's only so much I can say and get away with. Otherwise dear Sherlock might know I've been spying on them._

_Well, I don't really care either way._

_It's not like he can stop me._

…_._

Lana had to laugh.

He had over thought this. A JUMBO box of pregnancy testers? Just how stupid did he think she was? And condoms. An ECONOMY size pack of condoms.

It was like he thought they were sex maniacs or something.

What the people at the drugstore must have thought didn't even deserve to be considered.

And yet, it was weirdly cute.

She was giggling so loudly she almost didn't hear her phone vibrate.

ONE NEW MESSAGE.

With a sigh, she flipped it open, prepared to tell her editor to hold the deadline, or let her mom she was still coming for Christmas.

Her eyes grew wide.

MARCH 13TH, 4:30, SCOTT'S CAFE. WE NEED TO HAVE A TALK.

XO JIM MORIARTY

_Up next- Heartlock_

_In which there are dealings, a dinner party, and a curtain rod duel._

wow, this chapter was a long time coming. So much happened so fast, and now it's been nearly two months since my last update.

Hey guys!

I hope you liked the chapter. Crisis averted, Sherlock acting normal(ish), everything back to the way it should be, right?

Wrong.

I couldn't keep him dead. I'm sorry, the idea of not bring lovely Andrew Scott's wonderful psychopath into The Flatmates was unbearable.

So he's back. From the dead? Maybe. Maybe not. We won't know until Season 3, I guess.

Which needs to hurry up and AIR ALREADY!

Anyway, the school year is over for me, and now I can move on with life and enjoy summer. My good friend Alex is writing his own fansieries actually, so I'll keep you guys posted on that. Otherwise, enjoy summer!  
>I believe in Sherlock Holmes.<p>

Jay.


	16. Heartlock

Heartlock

_In which there are dealings, a dinner party and a curtain rod duel_

Heartlock.

That was what they called them. That was their little nickname, their little joke.

By they, Sherlock was referring to 'everyone within the area of London who is not myself or Lana.'

They were _everywhere; _at the coffee machine at Scotland Yard, in the texts from Mycroft, in snide comments from Anderson, in awkward smiles from LeStrade.

That name. The label of their relationship.

Heartlock.

The worst part was that Lana didn't seem to care about the name. She didn't seem to _care _that everyone knew.

"How can you be okay with this?" Sherlock asked as he watched Lana type out her latest article one grey Tuesday afternoon.

"Stop staring, I can't concentrate when you stare." She replied. "And anyway, why are you NOT okay with this?"

"It's a label; I can't stand labels," He responded, throwing himself dramatically into a nearby chair as though the thought of having a relationship label was a mark of certain death.

"You have been dealing with labels since you started making headlines again. As soon as the press got wind that you were still alive, they were calling you- what was it? The Vampire?" She snickered. "Personally, I think Heartlock is a much better label than that or Hatman and Robin, don't you?"

"I LIKED Hatman and Robin!" John chimed in from the kitchen, refilling his third- or was it fifth- cup of coffee.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock replied.

"Besides, Sherlock, the nickname isn't in the media; it's just a name within people we know. Why are you so worried?" Lana's eyes narrowed with amusement as she snapped her laptop shut. "Personally, I think that the only reason you're so concerned is because it's what they call you behind your back. You don't think people shipped you and John before I came along?"

Sherlock stared at her as though she had just expressed desire to become a herder of water buffalo. "What do you mean, me and John?"

"They called us Johnlock." John said as he leaned against the mantle to watch Sherlock's rising angst and Lana's growing humor. (By _they, _John was referring to 'every member of Scotland Yard, Mycroft, Missus Hudson, most of London, and the entire fan girl readership of his blog.')

John and the skull shared a look; they both agreed this was much better than any crap Telly.

Lana set her laptop down and was on Sherlock's lap in three steps. "Don't over think this one too much, ok genius? It's nothing to worry about."

"I don't' know what's more concerning; the fact that you don't care or the fact you're such a bad liar. I can always tell when you're hiding something."

"Right," Lana said, kissing him and sliding off his lap onto the floor. "I'm going out. Do we need anything?"

"Coffee"

"Milk"

"Sugar"

"Stuff for dinner"

"Lighter fluid"

"Nicotine patches"

"Ok, just stop there." Lana smiled and grabbed her coat and wallet as she headed for the door. "I'll cook tonight; don't worry about it. Don't wait up!"

The door slammed behind her. Neither of the men asked where she was going as they heard her go down the stairs. She did whatever she wanted, just like the two of them. The system was based on everyone being able to live their own lives and trust each other not to do something stupid.

Wait, hang on. Who am I kidding? This is Heartlock we're talking about.

….

Lana swallowed and pushed through the crowds of tourists as she moved down Shasbury Avenue. Around her, the city hummed with the sounds of life, beating with the pulse of a thousand living souls. Everyone had their own place; their own hopes and dreams and loved ones.

She hitched her bag more firmly and kept moving to avoid losing her nerve- and possibly her lunch- on the pavement.

Lana had heard plenty about Moriarty. More than she cared to know, to be honest, and definitely more than she wanted to admit.

Because Lana Heart was a journalist, through and through, and like any good journalist, was naturally curious.

She sincerely hoped Sherlock hadn't hacked her laptop too much in the past few months, because if he had, he would have found The Files; the extensive library of documents and reports and photos and stories about the world's only consulting criminal hidden away in her hard drive. She had found everything she could when John had told her the stories of their encounters with the dark-eyed, playful psychopath that had developed a worrying appetite for Sherlock.

But The Files had grown extensively in the past several days, when The Text had come.

Because besides everything Lana knew about Moriarty, the most prominent thing was the fact that he was supposed to be DEAD.

He had put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger and Sherlock had watched.

So what kind of demon could cheat the devil? (To this day, Lana was never sure whether she was talking about Sherlock or Satan: or maybe both.)

She could see the sign for Scott's café growing in the distance; a little café, tucked into a wall against the London smoke and fog. Everything else seemed to fall away from her line of vision as she moved toward her fate.

_Am I going to die?_

She didn't want to think about that.

But what else can you think when you're facing the prospect of meeting a murderous psychopath?

The warmth of the interior hit her with a wall of steam as she pulled off her jacket and pulled her most stoic face. Scott's café seemed normal enough, but she was dating Sherlock Holmes; nothing could ever be what it seemed.

She took an empty corner booth and closed her eyes, immersing herself in the warmth and chatter of the room around her. Maybe, if she wished very, very hard, she could become invisible and no one would see her.

_And maybe Dad will come back and Sherlock and I will actually start thinking about marriage; get real, Lana, _she mentally scolded herself as a young waiter stepped up, paper and pencil ready.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee would be great." Lana smiled as he wrote down her order and left the table.

Lana absentmindedly drummed her fingers on the table as she stared across the room. The steam played around her as she stared at the clock. 4:32.

She knew she was on time. So where was he?

Maybe this was all a prank. A childish attempt to get under her skin.

A song by Adele started over the radio as her patience started to fail.

"Maybe you just don't exist," she said to the empty seat across from her.

"Oh, I don't know. I'd say I'm pretty real."

Lana's heart seemed to stop. She felt her eyes widen as every part of her seemed to alight with adrenaline; every hair seemed to stand on end…

And yet she was frozen to the spot.

Frozen in her seat as her waiter sat down across from her. Now suited up, he pushed her coffee across the table.

Lana inhaled the smell of coffee and milk and potential cyanide and tried to look as calm as possible. Jim simply smiled and appeared mildly amused. "Hello, Lana."

She swallowed. "Mr. Moriarty, I presume." It came out slightly cracked; twisted by fear.

"I understand your fear but why the formality? It's just Jim, Sweetie."

"Don't call me Sweetie."

"Who are you to make demands? I'm the one in control."

"What do you want?"

"What do you think? I want you."

"Not sure if you know this-"

"Probably do."

"-but I'm kind of taken. By your rival, I think I should mention."

"You really think that matters to me? You're so much more ordinary than I had hoped. What must he see in you?"

"What. Do. You. Want?"

"Direct, at least. And from what I've seen, a damn good kisser. I can at least see where part of the appeal comes." He laughed as Lana's face fell into ridges of shock. "Oh yes, Sweetie. I've been around a lot longer than you think, waiting for the opportunity to burn you three to the ground. And I will admit, it's been amusing, watching your little angst." He leaned in, inhaling the scent of the coffee as he stared into Lana's fear-strung face. "And trust me, my dear, this is only the beginning."

"Look, is there any reason why you're here? Other than to ensure that I tell Sherlock his worst enemy is back from the dead?"

"…but I set fire to the rain, watch it burn as I touched your fa-ace…" Jim sang along with the radio. Eyes closed, rocking back and forth slightly, it was almost as though he had forgotten she was there.

Lana had had enough. Keeping her face calm, she tossed some bills on the table and walked with purpose out of Scotts and into the building rain outside.

It made no sense. Her brain was buzzing with a million questions and theories as she tried to work out in her brain WHAT THE HELL HAD JUST HAPPENED.

I guess it gives her justification not to notice she was being followed until it was too late.

As she passed a bookstore on her left, she felt her phone vibrate. Pausing outside the window display of new detective novels, she pulled the black iPhone out of her bag.

The number was a jumble of random digits, and the message was just one word.

GOTCHA

It was then that Lana felt two things:

Jim's breath on the back of her neck, hot and loud and smelling faintly of coffee, and

The butt of a gun sticking into her back.

"Now really, did you really think it'd be that easy?" Jim taunted as he led her into the bookshop.

"Hello again. Are you going to tell me what you want this time?" Lana asked calmly. Even though her whole body was screaming in protest and panic, her brain told her Jim wasn't about to shoot her in the middle of a public building.

But then, this is Jim we're talking about.

"I thought I made it perfectly clear what I wanted. Must you be so ordinary?"

"You said you wanted me," Lana said coldly as Jim slipped the gun back into his jacket. "Could you honestly be any vaguer?"

"Well then, maybe _this_ will help you figure it out." With a sudden, ferocious movement, Jim snatched a book off the shelf and tossing into her chest. "I hope you've read it; you don't get any more hints."

Lana looked down at the cover; it was a John le Carre's novel; _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy._

Yes, she had read the book. And suddenly, what he wanted was painfully obvious.

She looked up, heart pounding, mind racing.

"You want me to spy for you?"

"Finally, you get it. I expected better; really, I did." Jim stepped forward and guided the book out of her hands as she sat there in general shock. Still enjoying himself immensely, he slid the book back onto the shelf, and then took hold of her arm. His eyes glittered with malice and joy. "I don't want much; there's no fun in it if I know too much. But knowing I can get whatever I want from you, whenever I want it; that's what I've been waiting for. Because if you don't, I will kill him."

He looked her in the eye, tightening his grip of her arm and drawing her close to him. "I will kill Sherlock and John and Missus Hudson and your dear old Mum and I will make you watch. Better yet, I'll make you pull the trigger." Jim released her and she took an involuntary step backward. "You better do as I say, because you know I'm not lying. And I intend to make the most of this golden opportunity, hon." He sighed. "Watching you dance; it's going to be beautiful."

Lana couldn't move; she was paralyzed by the look in Jim's eyes; pure insanity and excitement and malevolence. Psycho on a sugar rush.

Jim took a step forward, bearing down on her. "I'm glad we had this little talk, Sweetie. Oh, and by the way," he stepped even closer, "telling Sherlock to stop worrying won't help. If anything, it'll get him even more paranoid."

His lips touched her forehead, sending a tremor down her body right to the tips of her feet.

Jim pulled back; clearly delighted with the effect he had produced.

"Until next time, Lana."

And with a turn of his heel and the swish of the door, Jim Moriarty was gone.

….

She ran.

She ran as fast as she could. No direction, no rhyme or reason; she just _ran. _

And when she couldn't run any more, she went grocery shopping.

Somehow, after all that had occurred, she still remembered her promise to make dinner.

And because she wanted him in a good mood, she bought Sherlock the nicotine patches he wanted.

As Lana walked toward the entrance of 221B, she felt her heart begin to slow for the first time that day. Despite everything that had happened, she knew she had to tough it out. For Sherlock's sake. For John and Missus Hudson.

And for Emily.

Lana shoved her key into the lock and put on her best poker face as she stepped through the door. Missus Hudson was in the hallway, holding a cup of tea, and her face lit up when she saw Lana standing there, dripping wet and carrying two large grocery sacks.

"Evening dear, let me help you with those. I can't imagine what you were thinking, doing the shopping for the boys on your own, I'm always telling them to do things themselves…"

Lana tuned her out as her landlady set down her tea, lifted a bag out of Lana's arms and led the way up the stairs. It was all so blissfully normal; and yet, everything was changing.

_I'm a dirty, rotten little bitch._ She thought as she set the bag down on the counter. _I'm doing business with my boyfriend's greatest enemy; what am I thinking?_

Her thought process was caught short by a curtain rod whistling past her head.

Reflexively, she ducked, looking up to see Sherlock standing over her, shirt sleeves rolled up and holding two halves of the curtain rod like rapiers.

"What's this about?" Lana asked from her position on the kitchen floor.

"An experiment," he replied lazily, dropping to the _en guard _stance. "Recent development in a case and I need data. So come on then."

He held out one of the curtain rod halves.

Lana wanted to tell him, right then and there what was going on. But she knew that in doing so, everyone she loved would be thrown into a whirlwind of terrifying change.

For now, let everyone have their blessed normality.

If she had known not telling him would end everything, she probably would have shouted it out anyway. Forget their blessed normality.

But she didn't know that.

So Lana took it and immediately took a swipe at his legs. The duel was on.

Several thrusts and parries later, John Watson walked into the sitting room to find this little episode occurring:

Both chairs were over-turned, books lying across the floor like dead bodies, the curtains lying in dusty heaps on the carpet, the Telly turned on to some bizarre channel, and the pillows tossed across the room.

And Sherlock and Lana were in front of the windows, fighting with two halves of the curtain rods. Neither of them seemed to notice John's entrance; they held each other off with such focus and intensity that John highly doubted they would have noticed if a bomb went off in the kitchen.

John blinked twice, and then turned around and went back to his room.

….

Two Days Later

Lana glanced around once and headed upstairs with the mail. Two days after her encounter with Moriarty, she was still checking, not only for a message from him, but a potential letter bomb as well.

Which, knowing Jim, I suppose could have been the same thing.

Gingerly holding the stack of letters as though they might burst into flames, Lana sprinted back upstairs, burst through the door, and immediately handed the mail off to John, who began to sort through them while Lana poured some more coffee and went to wake Sherlock up.

The curly-haired consulting detective was sprawled across his bed, all elbows and stomach and tangled sheet. However, as Lana stepped closer, he opened one eye and lifted his head, the picture of pure laziness.

"How long have you been awake?" Lana asked, setting the coffee down on the nightstand and surveying her boyfriend with mild amusement and disapproval.

"Not long," he purred, stretching out like a giant alabaster cat. Lana bit back the urge to scratch him behind the ears.

"Well, come on then. We have things to do."

Sherlock held out an arm. "Everything seems boring right now. Want to ease the monotony?"

"If that's smart-ass talk for 'let's have sex', then no," she replied, heading out the door. She paused in the doorway, looked back at him, and smiled wickedly. "Maybe later, if you behave."

As she shut the door, she heard him laughing as he rolled out of bed.

When she entered the kitchen, John was drinking coffee and turning a letter over and over in his hands with a brooding expression on his face.

"What's wrong, sunshine?" Lana asked as she reached him.

John held up the letter with a look of exhaustion. "It's an invitation. To a dinner party of Mycroft's."

"So, are we going?"

"I don't know, it seems a little out of profile for Mycroft."

"So what? Either we go and have a good time messing with Mycroft's snooty friends, or we ignore the walrus's request and have our own party with plenty of running around London."

"You want to go?" John seemed surprised.  
>"Why not? This could be fun. And it's an excuse to go dress shopping with Molly and Sarah." Lana smiled coyly and looked pointedly toward Sherlock's room. "I'm sure I'll find something worth wearing."<p>

John slid her the invitation and picked up the paper. "I actually wouldn't mind going either; I've been trying to find a nice place to take Sarah; I guess this is as good an opportunity as any."

"Well, what about him?" Lana asked, waving her hand in the direction of Sherlock's room.

"What about me?" Sherlock called from the bedroom.

"Nothing, Sherlock; just finish getting changed." John called.

"BORING."

Lana sighed. "Want to go to Mycroft's dinner party with us?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock stuck his head out of his door.

"A night of my darling brother trying to talk up London's high society? And we get a front row seat?" he looked positively gleeful. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." His face suddenly went back to stoic. "But I'm not talking to anyone unless absolutely necessary."

"That's the sociopath we know and love," Lana replied as she went back to her coffee.

_Up next- Blood in the Punch_

_In which there is foul play, a murder, and some sexy times._

Hi!

So, I'm currently stuck at home with a lovely case of the flu! YAY! But hey, it gives me plenty of time to write. I am in the ZONE right now!

Anyway, Moriarty is back.

And there was much rejoicing. I hope.

Hopefully, this isn't too big of a problem for you guys. Sherlock needs his old foe back (yes, yes you do, Sherlock. You've been too normal up until this point.) And honestly, I just wanted to make Lana squirm a little (sorry, Lana. You can stop banging your head against the table now.) Plus, trying to create Moriarty in my own words sounded like too much fun to pass up. (Jim, put the book down. There was way more references in this chapter then there should have been. Stop laughing, you know it's true.)

Anyway, count on Jim making another appearance soon. But for now, I get to write the chapter I've been looking forward to writing for a while. I've really wanted to put our little trio in this scenario for a LONG time, but the timing was never right, so now I'm finally going to do it.

I think I'll throw a little Panic! at the Disco in there too for fun.

The next chapter may be in more than one part; it all depends on what happens. I'll try to keep it moving along though.

Moriarty is real

Jay


	17. Blood in the Punch

Blood in the Punch

_In which there is foul play, decent food, and murder_

Not many things could sway the great Sherlock Holmes. The exceptions were cats, bad food poisoning, and,

"Put it on, already," Lana stood at the door, holding the tux as though she could melt it through the wood and onto Sherlock's body through sheer force of will. Mycroft had dropped the tux off days before, and ever since then, 'it' as the suit was being affectionately called, had inspired within Sherlock the utmost revulsion. He had been dodging it all week, coming up with excuse after excuse to avoid looking at 'it' for as long as possible. But despite countless efforts to get rid of the object of his distaste (including setting fire to it, setting angry cats on it, and trying to sell it off to his homeless network for new lab equipment), it had stayed ever present thanks to John and Lana's pure desire to both go to the party and (though they would never freely admit it) see Sherlock in a tuxedo with full tails and a matching blue shirt.

Personally, I think it was because neither of them really wanted to deal with Mycroft if Sherlock refused to make an appearance. The measures Mycroft would likely go to ensure his little brother's attendance didn't even deserve thinking about.

Sherlock stuck his head out of his bedroom door, looking slightly bleary-eyed despite the fact that it was now five in the afternoon.

"Why do we have to do this?" he whined, "Everyone there hates me anyway."

Days before, Sherlock had somehow gotten hold of the full guest list, and, upon discovering that not only would Anderson, Donovan AND Molly would be attending but also a whole array of people he had recently insulted in various ways, immediately lost all interest in attending and began viewing the party with a growing feeling of fear, revulsion and general distaste.

"Because Mycroft invited us and you said you would go so we're going." Lana responded, holding 'it' just out of Sherlock's line of reach.

"Life would be no fun if I didn't lie to my brother."

"Sherlock, suit, now."

The head retreated with a groan. Lana turned to John, who was watching from the chair, halfway through updating his blog.

She set 'it' down on the kitchen table and sighed in defeat before addressing John.

"Try and talk some sense into him, will you? Mycroft's been texting me all day. How did he even get my number?"

"You get used to it," said John, a veteran of these situations and probably much more adept at handling Sherlock than Sherlock's mildly violent and very confused girlfriend. With a smile, he snapped the laptop shut and took Lana by the shoulders. "You go ahead and get changed. I'll talk to him."

"So you'll force him into it?"

"Maybe."

Lana grinned and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks John, you're a saint. And by the way," she added as she headed downstairs, "you look great."

John blushed good-naturedly and straightened his tie. Personally, he thought that the suit- which he hadn't worn since Harry and Clara's wedding- looked ridiculous, but it was black and formal and worked with the tie. So, encouraged by Lana's words, John stepped into Sherlock's room, with 'it' in tow.

Sherlock was sprawled across his bed like a downed bat, his face mashed into the pillows as he let out a muffled groan. "There's nothing out there for me, John. Nothing worth wasting my time on and certainly nothing worth looking stupid for."

"It's not a death sentence, Sherlock; it's a party. Three hours of some food, dancing, and acting civil. Is that really so bad?"

"You're enjoying this."

"Honestly, it seems like the only reason you care is because you know you're going to have to face Mycroft in that suit he's making you wear."

"Piss off."

"I thought that was your job." John responded, keeping his face set as he dropped the tux at the edge of the bed. "What would you rather have happen; go to the party and give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing you behaved, or stay here and give Mycroft the satisfaction of dragging you out of here and making you come?"

There was a moment's contemplative silence.

"Oh, give it here, then."

John smiled in victory as he headed for the door.

"And wipe that stupid grin off your face." Sherlock commanded as John stepped out into the hallway.

"Twenty minutes, Sherlock, and then we're leaving." John called behind him. "Don't break anything."

"No promises."

….

Twenty minutes later

"I look like a corpse."

Sherlock was pulling at every piece of the tux he could get his fingers around, trying to keep as much of the material as possible off of his skin. It was like the shirt was made of live fire ants. John honestly couldn't see what the all the fuss was about; Sherlock wore silk shirts all the time, and had plenty that he considered his personal favorites anyway.

John supposed it was because the tux was from Mycroft.

The best part was the fact that Sherlock actually looked good. Mycroft- or else Anthea, or Holly, or whatever her name was today- had good taste. The blue shirt was a nice contrast to Sherlock's pale skin and black jacket. He looked like a well-groomed angel of death. Or demon.

Or something.

Anyway, John was stuffing his revolver into his jacket and making sure it wasn't leaving too big a bulge in his side when Lana came in.

Her hair was out of its usual ponytail; it cascaded down her back in a deep brown waterfall, straight and shiny. She was wearing dangling earrings, a silver locket, and a tiny, intricate bracelet that wound around her wrist like a tiny snake. She was also smiling; a combination of nerves and enjoyment, as though she was buoyed by the four-inch heels on her feet and the effect she had produced.

And of course, the dress.

We had to save the dress for last, of course.

It was a blue, backless, one shoulder evening gown with a swishing skirt that swept the floor and a shape that accented her body in all the right places.

And, while neither of them will ever admit it freely, both the boys stopped what they were doing and turned to stare. And not a quick glance kind of stare.

A jaw-on-the-floor, eyes-falling-out-of-their-heads, incapable-of-stopping STARE.

"Stop it, you two," Lana muttered, turning red in the neck and pink around the ears.

John recovered first. "You look great."

She smiled in embarrassment, then turned on her heel and waltzed down the stairs. "Come on then, boys; let's get this over with."

The front door of 221B shut behind her, leaving a stunned silence in her wake. Then there was a grabbing of coats and gloves and the boys were tripping over themselves trying to get out the door.

None of them knew what to expect as they clambered into the waiting car.

If they had known, they all would have packed more than a pistol.

….

The manor was huge.

It loomed out of the darkness like a hulking giant, a mass of grey stone with four stories, soaring arches and windows ablaze with light. It was a huge beast; mouth wide with glowing eyes and a gaping mouth of a door.

Sarah, John and Lana all looked at each other and immediately made a decision; stick together, or we all get swallowed up.

As the car pulled up in the gravel drive and then purred to a stop, the driver turned and addressed them all like children at a school dance. "Right, back at midnight. Call me if yah gonna be later, y'hear? I ain't waitin' for no one."

"Of course, Greagor. Thank you." Sherlock replied as he opened the door, allowing everyone to clamber out.

The door shut with terrifying finality, and the car disappeared into the night.

"Cheerful bloke," John muttered. "Where'd you find him?"

"Owes me a favor," Sherlock replied as he adjusted his jacket for the fiftieth time.

"Ready?" asked Sarah, tightening her grip on John's arm.

"Not even close," Lana replied as they climbed the stairs to the entrance, where a pair of men stood, waiting to admit them into Mycroft's clutches.

The hall was enormous, full of well-dressed guests, waiters and softly playing music. A huge chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, keeping a bright and watchful eye on the dancers and merry-makers as they swept around the room. A huge marble staircase dominated the center of the back wall, leading to the upper floors. On one side of the stairs was a set of double doors that led to the dining room; on the other was an open, well-lit bar. A live band was on its own little pedestal against the right wall. All along the side and front walls were floor to ceiling gilded windows, giving a spectacular view of the night outside and the outer lawns.

It was like being stuck in a glass cage.

Lana calmly handed off her coat and stepped deeper into the room, drinking in as much as she could without making it obvious she was staring. It took all of her willpower not to look at the man who walked beside her; she could already feel the eyes swiveling to Sherlock. And then to her.

Of course they all knew she was with him. OF COURSE. They were all bloody Heartlock followers.

Damn Mycroft and his fancy parties full of gossip.

"This is Mycroft's idea of simple?" she breathed, unable to stop her eyes from wandering from one guest to the next. Mycroft certainly got around; already she had picked out a handful of actors, a few politicians and two celebrity chefs (she had no idea why Mycroft had invited chefs; unless this was all for show. Which, knowing Mycroft, it probably was.)

"He's always been far too showy," Sherlock replied, staring straight ahead and humming tunelessly under his breath.

"I'll give him that. I mean, look at this place!"

"Tacky."

"Behave," John muttered, appearing on Sherlock's other side as they stepped to the edge of the dance floor. "It's only a few hours."

Mycroft, wearing a full-tailed tux and a loud violet shirt, broke away from his previous conversation and strode toward them. "Well now," he said, his face full of something that wasn't quite pleasure. "I'm surprised you found time in your busy schedule to attend my get-together, little brother."

Sherlock kept his face expressionless. "Did I have a choice?"

"Did you?" asked Mycroft, giving him The Look. The You-And-I-Both-Know-Better look.

Sherlock grunted and looked away as John stepped forward to fill the gap of silence. "Good evening, Mycroft."

"Dr. Watson, Miss Heart, it's a pleasure to see you again," Mycroft responded, acknowledging them both and blocking Sherlock out of the conversation entirely as he continued, "I hope my brother hasn't been too much trouble? He can be such a handful at events like this. On the other hand, Sherlock hasn't had much of a taste for my socials since the Christmas party two years ago, when he set fire to the-"

"That's enough, Mycroft." Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.

Lana detected danger and took up the conversation where John left off. "You have a lovely home, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, my dear, I think I've made it clear before; call me Mycroft. Any, ah, companion of my brother's should know me on a first-name basis only."

At this, Sherlock simply strode off toward the open bar to sulk. Lana and Mycroft watched him leave; one with annoyance, the other with amusement.

"My apologizes, Miss Heart; it would appear my brother's sociopathic nature has taken hold for now." Mycroft made a curt bow and offered his hand as the music shifted pace to medium waltz. "May I have the pleasure?"

It didn't quite sound like a question; more like a command.

"Er, of course," she replied, taking his hand and glancing in Sherlock's direction as Mycroft led her onto the dance floor.

Lana wasn't sure why she was so surprised that Mycroft was actually a good dancer. After all, the Holmes boys could do anything, right? She looked behind her to see John dancing with Sarah- well, Sarah was doing most of the dancing, pulling John along with her. John was watching her with raised eyebrows. Lana threw him a look over Mycroft's shoulder and went to focusing on maneuvering in the heels she was beginning to regret wearing.

"So, tell me Miss Heart- "

"Please, Mycroft, call me Lana. Any brother of my- what was it? Companion? - should know me on a first name basis only."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow with what was almost an impressed look on his usually quite pompous face. "I can see Sherlock's appeal; you really are much savvier than he gives you credit for." He led her into a turn. "I wanted to make you aware of the position you are in should you continue interacting with him."

"Meaning?"

"That in Sherlock's world, everything- love included- is a battle field and a calculation. And as I'm sure you're aware, Sherlock likes to stay in control of his own battles."

"I'm well aware." Lana responded, not entirely sure where this conversation was going.

"So I'm sure you are also well aware that Sherlock keeps plenty to himself in order to stay in control."

"I wouldn't say he tells me everything," Lana said, "but Sherlock has his own business and I have mine."

"I'm sure," Mycroft sniffed, "but what I'm trying to offer you, Lana, is a chance to put your reporter skills to the test, along with a reasonable sum of money to ease your ways here in Britain."

"In exchange for?"

"Information," Mycroft said with a grin.

Lana couldn't believe what she was hearing. _How many people want me to be a mole for them?_

"I only ask you to let me know what he's up to now and again. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable sharing."

Lana turned red.

"I'd of course make it worth your while-"

"I'm sorry Mycroft, but I'm going to have to politely decline." Lana didn't even bother letting him finish. This was hitting far too close to her last encounter with someone who wanted information about her boyfriend.

Mycroft's expression didn't change, but the look in his eyes made the temperature drop about ten degrees.

"Now, Miss Heart, just how loyal are you willing to be to this man?"

"I've faced death for him, sir, and it left me with scars that will never fully heal. I'd say I'm pretty damn loyal to him." She released his shoulder as the song came to an end. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

"Until next time, Miss Heart." Mycroft called after her.

Lana slid out of the throng surrounding the dance floor toward the open bar. Sherlock was no longer there- Lana suspected he had found a corner to sulk in for the rest of the evening- but the liquor was free, so she ordered a martini and surveyed the crowd with a polite interest.

The martini was almost gone when John walked up, looking genuinely concerned.

"I saw you talking to Mycroft; are you ok?"

"Yeah, of course, I'm fine."

"What did he want?"

"Same as what he wanted from you; he wanted me to spy on Sherlock for him." Lana took another sip and glanced around. "Where's Sarah?"

"She went to the Loo." John glanced around as though planning his escape. "How much longer should we keep this up?"

"We'll stay through dinner and then make a decision," she decided. "At least that way there's free food, and knowing these people it's bound to be…"

But exactly what it was bound to be was lost as something caught Lana's eye. John watched as her eyes grew to the size of saucers and she generally began to have a small panic attack right there against the counter of the bar.

"Are you ok?"

Lana seemed to be having trouble forming actual words, but finally managed to choke out what had caused her to nearly keel over with excitement.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "It's Vixen."

John turned to follow her gaze; Lana was staring at a young girl who couldn't be more than 21 or 22. She was medium height, with thin features and a reclusive demeanor. John thought she looked like a willow tree; as though one blow would cause her to bend with it. She had the face John associated with the quiet, nerdy girls who hid in the romance section of the library.

At least, that's what he would have thought if it weren't for the rest of her.

Vixen's hair was raven black with the ends died bright red and orange; it looked like a wildfire. She wore a black corset with a red skirt that puffed out to just past her knees. Below that were night black high-heeled combat boots. She looked like she escaped from a graphic novel or something. (John had never actually READ any manga, although he had opened a copy of Deathnote when he was 19 and bored and hoping for decent porn-instead all he got was a picture of Misa Amane in all her gothic Lolita glory.)

John stared at the girl for a little longer, but then looked back at Lana who was staring at Vixen like she had seen Jesus.

"Friend of yours?"

"I wish," Lana murmured, taking an extra large gulp of martini and slamming the empty glass back onto the counter with trembling hands. "She's one of my favorite music artists! I love her work! I can't believe she's here, I-"

"Okay, I get it. Let's move on before you get us thrown out." John said quickly, guiding Lana away from her musical idol.

"I'm sure Sherlock would love that. Where did he even end up?" Lana replied, watching a crowd of guests obscure Vixen from view. With a sad sigh, she and John headed off into the crowd.

As they passed around a group of already tipsy guests, they spotted Sherlock.

Lana choked on her laughter. Sherlock was backed against the wall, surrounded by three scantily dressed models. All of them were trying their best to get his attention- and all of them, Lana was pleased to notice, were failing miserably.

After about two minutes of suppressing laughter as Lana and John watched Sherlock attempt to fight off the small swarm of girls who were following him around, Lana took pity on him. Pausing only to fix her hair and straighten her dress, she marched up to the corner in which Sherlock had been trapped.

"Sherlock, hon where's that dance you promised me?" Lana cooed, reaching between the models to pull Sherlock out of his little prison and into her arms. With her eyes on the models (all of whom were seething with both anger and- much to Lana's delight- jealousy), she took a firmer hold on his arm and guided him away from his attackers.

"Thank God you showed up; trying to get rid of them was horrible- they were both stupid and deaf. I say that we get out of here as fast as possible before- wait, where are you going?"

It was in that moment, when the horror of what had just occurred was wearing off, that Sherlock realized that Lana was not pulling him toward the door, but was in fact dragging him onto the dance floor.

"I just saved your sanity," Lana informed him, "and there is no way you're getting away that easily."

The music settled into a song Lana didn't recognize as Sherlock rolled him eyes and took her waist. "Fine."

They moved with the music, Sherlock guiding her over the stone with the slightest touch. All feeling left her feet and it felt as though they glided over the floor as her partner led her into dips and turns, avoiding the other dancers as they worked their way across the edge of the dance floor. Lana felt she had chosen well; the song, a light Latin tune, had the pulse of a waltz and all the passion of a tango. The steps weren't hard and she let Sherlock lead her across the floor in a passionate- and showy- display. Lana caught sight of John, staring opened-mouthed at the pair of them, so clearly they must have been doing something somewhat impressive.

"I didn't know you could dance," Lana said as Sherlock pulled her closer, pressing the two of them together.

"I never said I couldn't dance," Sherlock replied, sliding her into a dip, "I just choose not to."

The music ended, and with a loud creak, the doors to the dining room were thrown open and the guests moved forward in a tidal wave, carrying Lana, Sherlock, John and Sarah into the huge dining hall. There were waiters and columns and several long tables set with candles, decorations and enough food to feed an army.

"Tacky," Sherlock muttered again. Lana squeezed his arm.

The laughter and light chatter died down as the guests settled in. Despite Lana's reporter savvy with high society, she found herself at a loss for words. (Five spoons? Who on earth needed five spoons?)

At least the food was good. Lana ate lightly but enjoyed everything; Mycroft may be a pompous, overstuffed walrus, but at least he knew good food.

Sarah ate moderately, and John ate what he could without drawing attention to himself.

Sherlock, true to form, wasn't eating at all. Instead, he pooled all of his energy into making deductions about every single party guest down their table, feeding a string of information into Lana's ear.

"Having an affair… bankrupt… engaged… dying of stomach cancer… needs money…"

"Shut _up._" Lana muttered, pushing Sherlock's mouth away from her ear and trying to focus on her plate.

Mycroft, at the head of the table to their right, suddenly stood. As though on command, all of the guests stopped what they were doing and turned to face him.

Everyone that is, except for Sherlock, who was attempting to use two of the five spoons as spy equipment.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening," Mycroft said in his usual, slightly bored tone. Beside him, Anthea- or Holly or whatever her name was- was texting and only half paying attention.

Mycroft coughed delicately and continued. "I'd also like to invite some of my coworkers up to my study to discuss some business, but it's my deepest wish," (liar) "that everyone enjoys the rest of the party. Thank you."

The guests, taking that as their signal to leave the dining room, stood and moved as a solid mass back into the main hall, once again pulling the Flatmates and Sarah along with them. After many bumped elbows and "pardon me's", they found themselves at the foot of the grand staircase. The last of Mycroft's coworkers were swaggering up the steps, looking quite pleased with themselves at being invited this far into the lion's den.

Sherlock rubbed his hands in anticipation. "This is what I've been waiting for all night."

"A display of your brother's finest ass-kissing abilities?" Lana asked.

"Exactly." Sherlock straightened his jacket and proceeded to waltz up the steps. "I'll be back before midnight; don't wait up!"

John, Sarah and Lana exchanged looks.

"Wanna dance?" John asked awkwardly, reaching for her hand. Sarah looked painfully at Lana.

"Oh, go on," she said, and watched sadly as her friends danced off together. Then, putting on her fakest smile, and still nursing her broken heart, Lana planted herself at the foot of the stairs to watch the course of the party.

….

The meeting was rubbish.

It was facts and figures Sherlock had no interest in, and some foreign cigars that, instead of fulfilling his nicotine craving, only made him cough.

Oh, the ass-kissing had happened, and it had been hilarious, and Sherlock had had a great laugh at his older brother's expense.

But now it was just the facts and figures and cigars that made him cough.

And he kept thinking of Lana. Of how he'd rather be somewhere else with Lana.

About how damn attractive she was in her dress.

To hell with this. To hell with crouching outside his brother's study like a rat.

He was going to find Lana and they were going to get out of here and go somewhere else.

When it came to snap decisions or any decision at all really, Sherlock was often a little fuzzy on the details. So, being careful not to make the floorboards creak, Sherlock edged his way out of the hallway and then broke into a run, heading back towards the main hall.

He broke the top of the stairway in full sprint, gazing out at the sea of guests.

And one lone island of a girl. A girl, leaning against the banister. A girl, in a very pretty blue dress.

Lana turned at the sound of his footsteps, and in an instant their eyes met.

Ok, stop. Hold everything. Think of the most romantic couple you've ever seen. Think of the passion-filled looks that are just OOZING with true love. And cheese.

Now throw all that out the window.

Because whatever couple you were just imagining, they had nothing on these two.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to. No words were necessary as Lana met him halfway up the stairs, as Sherlock took her hands in his, as they both started climbing back up the staircase.

It was like they hoped that if they climbed high enough, they would find a way to get somewhere else. Anywhere but here.

Adrenaline pushed them to a light jog as they rushed down the carpeted halls; like their dance before, Sherlock was steering, Lana was following, trying to keep up, until the door to a room was thrown open and the two of them hurried inside. Sherlock slammed the door behind them, throwing them into pitch black.

Lana turned on the spot trying to see as Sherlock groped for a light switch. "Are we safe?" she asked.

The lights snapped on as Sherlock turned to face her. "I think so."

Lana turned, and something dropped out of her stomach. She and Sherlock were standing at the edge of a huge, dimly-lit guest bedroom. The small chandelier hung from the ceiling, turning the blue carpet black. The walls were plain and undecorated, save for a mirror that hung on the side wall. There was a nightstand, a chest of drawers, and vanity pushed in the corner.

And the bed. I'll leave that to your imagination. It was big; it was white, blah, blah, blah.

And honestly, they could have been in a supply closet for all they cared. As long as it was somewhere else.

….

Keep this in mind. The room wasn't soundproof. It was never designed to be soundproof. And there were plenty of rooms all down the corridor exactly like it in its design.

So if you were making a lot of noise, you can bet someone was likely to here you.

This was less of bad news for our romantic couple and more of bad news for our murderer.

Yes, murderer. You heard me correctly. Keep your shirt on, I'm getting to that.

Lana stepped forward, closing the little space that was still between them, and in the same movement began to make short work of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. (Damn it you two, I said keep the shirts ON- what should I have expected? Those two never listen. They just go off on their own, don't they?) Despite the fact that his heart rate had skyrocketed, Sherlock could still appreciate his observations as Lana worked her way down his chest, exposing a torso of pale white skin. He had watched her cradle a pistol with as equal grace as when she cradled her laptop.

And with that observation, Sherlock Holmes reached the conclusion that she was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Lana, in the process of removing the four inch death traps that passed for footwear, had broken the one rule you should always follow whether you are solving crimes with or snogging the face of Sherlock Holmes; do not lose focus. So, caught off guard by his sudden movement, she was thrown off balance and suddenly tackled onto the bed as Sherlock took control of the situation. She found herself gazing up at him, once again with her hair flying across her face, and smiled at the thought this was not unlike their first meeting; this was all instinct and survival and do or die. Sherlock reached out and brushed the hair from her face, staring at her with a look that went right through her soul, and leaned down and caught Lana's mouth with his own. Again caught off guard, she struggled for air, and then let the abyss claim her as she sank beneath reason and questions and into the deep dark world that was Sherlock.

It was odd to him; how natural this felt at this point. Under normal circumstances, he would be making every observation he could, thinking and processing and generally would end up a million miles away. But now, when he was with Lana, when she was running one hand through his hair and keeping the other arm around his waist, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was think.

And that was when the screaming started.

Despite the fact Sherlock was trying his hardest NOT to think, it still took him only 2.4 seconds to react (yes, he counted). He and Lana both instinctively focused on their surroundings and turned toward the wall, where the screams of pain and horror were seeping through the walls like fresh blood through a shirt; effortlessly.

The moment was over as quickly as it had begun. Sherlock rolled off of Lana and pulled her to her feet, dragging her behind him as they dove for the door and wrenched it open.

The jacket and the heels were left behind in the dim light of the bedroom: the only remaining sign of the last few minutes.

Two steps down the hallway. One right turn.

One heavy shoulder thrown against the door as the screams choked to a sickening stop.

The door gave easily, and they tumbled into the room.

And then it was Lana's turn to scream.

The window was thrown wide open, the cold air whistling through the room with an ominous moan.

And a body lay against the foot of the bed, tied to the leg with strips of duct tape. Blood coursed from an open wound in her neck, dripping down onto the carpet, tracing red lines down her black hair.

It was Vixen.

_Up next-The Aftermath_

_In which there are deductions, a radio and a ripped dress._

**Summer is awesome. Just saying. **

**So, I'm in Cali, visiting relatives. And sleeping in my aunt's back bedroom. At least she's got a nice backyard.**

**But that has nothing to do with the fanfiction. **

**Anyway, it feels good to be back online. I feel like I've been writing really slowly, and so I figured that now would be as good a time as any to kick-start myself into production.**

**The only problem is that during the summer, my productivity drops to about zero. I find myself in no position to do much besides consuming ramen, swimming and 'surfing the internet like an attention-deficit squirrel on PCP'.**

**But I really want to write this next chapter, because I love Panic! at the Disco and I feel like Lana would like them and Sherlock would…well… be Sherlock about it. I keep getting equally horrifying and hilarious images of Sherlock dancing to P!ATD every time I hear their music. **

**Which pretty much means that 60% of my time on my iPod is spent laughing my head off.**

**(Sherlock, put the gun down. It's true and it's funny and you know it.)**

**Anyway, I figured I might as well give them an actual case to solve. They haven't really done that yet, so I figured this would be the best time as any.**

**And what better way to interrupt Sherlock and Lana's kissing session than a little bit of murder? (Yes, you two, I planned that. Don't give me those looks.) I also might bring back Moriarty for a little bit, but I feel like I should get this case out of the way first.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**Jay**


	18. Aftermath

Aftermath

_In which there are deductions, a radio and holes in the ceiling._

Lana swallowed a sudden rush of vomit and stepped forward. Although most instincts were telling her to run, she refused to stop until she reached the body in front of her. On closer inspection, the wound was even worse than before. Her throat hadn't just been slashed; it had been torn open. And it wasn't just huge; it was also fresh. The blood still ran from the gaping wound in Vixen's neck, dripping down in sickening puddles across the carpet. "Oh God," she whispered.

Sherlock stepped forward and immediately went to work.

"Get Anderson. And LeStrade."

Even as he said it, Lana could tell he was a million miles away; already lost in the twists and turns of his deductions.

Lana didn't need to be told twice. She turned smartly on her heel and ran back down the hallway as fast as her bare feet could carry her. Not entirely sure where she was, she simply chose a direction and ran toward what she hoped would be humanity.

Pausing at an intersecting hallway, Lana leaned against the wall and tried to calm her frantic heart. It was pulsing in some unknown rhythm, the beat of it pounding blood in her ears. She listened past the sound of her own frantic heartbeat, and heard the sound of laughter and chatter echoing down the hallway ahead of her. So, swallowing the last of her shock, Lana hitched up her dress and kept moving.

….

John glanced upward at the flash of blue and brown that had appeared at the top of the stairway. Lana was running down the stairs, hair flying out behind her, and hit the floor with a sense of purpose. She then began striding off among the dancers at a brisk pace, evidently looking for someone.

John grabbed Sarah's arm. "Did you see that?"

"See what?"

John looked around the room again, but Lana was nowhere to be seen. "Lana. She just…went by like she was …."

Sarah looked confused, and then her eyes grew wide. "Where's Sherlock?"

He didn't even bother to look around; John had seen both of them head upstairs, and now only Lana had returned: Sherlock hadn't come back down.

"Oh, no."

Sarah tightened her grip on John, and they headed off into the crowd after their friend.

….

_It had all been so EASY._

_That was the best part; not the hunt, not the reward._

_Not the look of terror on her face when her throat was slit._

_No, it was the fact that this job, this act of murder, had been so EASY to pull off._

_No one suspected. No one had any idea. _

_Except, perhaps, the great Sherlock Holmes. _

_But Holmes could be easily dealt with if he got anywhere close to the truth. And so could his companions._

…_._

LeStrade turned pale.

Anderson looked sick.

Molly's eyes got huge.

"Where's the Freak, then?" asked Donovan.

"He's upstairs, looking over the crime scene," Lana replied, curling her toes against the floor.

Donovan rolled her eyes.

"What's going on?" asked John, as he and Sarah caught up to Lana and the other members of the group. "Is everyone ok?"

"Not quite," said LeStrade gravely. "We've got a homicide. One of the dinner guests was murdered upstairs in one of the bedrooms."

John's face turned stony. "I see."

As one, the group turned toward the stairs and began working their way through the mass of guests.

….

"Well, he certainly made a bloody mess of things, didn't he?" Anderson commented as the group stepped over the threshold into the crime scene.

"Talking about the murderer or the freak?" Donovan muttered under her breath.

"Who can tell the difference?" he replied in barely a whisper.

"Just so you know, Sally, I didn't kill her," Sherlock called, almost cheerfully, from his position halfway under the bed. "I have an alibi and a witness to attest. Just ask Lana."

Anderson turned back to Lana, eyebrows raised. "You two were together? What were you even doing up here in the first place?"

Lana turned slightly pink and knotted her toes together beneath the dress. All she could think of was the high heels and jacket left on the floor in the bedroom next door. "We were…looking to get away from the noise and…such."

"Lana, shut up," said Sherlock. Donovan snickered and Lana bit back the urge to punch her.

"Right, I'm gonna have to call in some help to form a perimeter. None of the guests or staff gets in or out for the rest of the night till we get this figured out, got it?" said LeStrade to his two officers before turning to Molly and Sherlock's feet (he was apparently engrossed in the underside of the bed and had refused to move.) "I'm leaving you to get anything you can from here before the others show up. I'd give you about ten minutes."

"Longer than usual," Sherlock commented, crawling back out from under the bed to join LeStrade beside the corpse.

Molly flushed. "Oh, I don't he'll be needing me, I should just- "

"No, Miss Hooper, I'm going to need your expertise quite soon, if you can give me a few minutes to finish some observations," Sherlock replied, cutting of her sentence and guiding her towards the body. "I'm going to have to run my deductions past an average mind and see what results I get."

"What about us?" asked John, ignoring Sherlock's lack of tact and stepping forward, the better to survey the crime scene.

"Well, it's not like I can bloody well stop you two, can I?" said LeStrade, reaching into his pocket to pull out a cell phone. "Right, Donovan? Anderson? I need you two to come with me. We've got to at least start keeping people together before more enforcements come."

The three left the room, leaving the Flatmates, Molly and Sarah alone with the corpse.

John immediately turned to Sarah. "The car will be here any minute. Do you want to go back to London?"

Sarah, who was already very green, nodded.

"I'll take her," Lana offered, putting an arm around Sarah and guiding her toward the hallway. "I'll be back in a minute; feel free to start without me."

And with that, Lana pulled the door shut and guided her queasy friend through the halls and down the staircase to the large front doors.

"Some night, huh?" Lana commented, nudging Sarah out her slightly-nauseous stupor.

Sarah pulled off a small smile and nodded. "Not quite the way I expected it to end, but still nice." Together, they stepped out onto the cold steps, the chill tickling Lana's bare feet as she saw her friend out to the waiting car. As soon as the tail lights were out of view, Lana turned and walked back into the hall, where LeStrade, Anderson and Donovan were already working at bringing people in from the gardens and side rooms, corralling all the guests and staff into the main hall. Mycroft stood at the doors to the dining room, looking annoyed.

Lana ran to the nearest staff member, a taller blond man, and asked to get her bag.

"I'm sorry ma'am, no one can leave the premises," he said, slightly pompously.

"I'm not leaving; I just want my bag." Lana replied, staring him down until he cracked.

"All right then, follow me," he swallowed, and led her through the throng of guests to the tiny coat closet off the stairway. Lana stepped inside, amid the forest of furs and wraps and bags and parkas, and breathed in the scent of leather and perfume. Then she reached into the mass and extracted her bag. Once she was sure the waiter couldn't see her, Lana checked to make sure she still had the bag's contents; her camera, her rappelling gear, and her colt. All were accounted for, and, satisfied, she closed the bag and headed back for the entrance to the coat closet.

"Thanks so much," Lana said with a smile to the waiting attendant, and she immediately turned and ran back up the steps to the second floor.

….

Sherlock, Molly and John knelt around the body, staring at the murderer's grisly work. The body, on closer inspection and under the scrutinizing eye of the professionals, revealed much more than the initial shock and general nausea.

At least to Sherlock, anyway.

"Oh, come on you two. There's got to be more you observe then just THAT." Sherlock huffed, "Or are you two really that stupid?"

"Behave," John chided, not taking his eyes off the woman's corpse and trying to come up with something clever to say.

Molly turned pink.

Sherlock sat back and began to rattle off everything his overused brain had to offer. "Victim is in her early twenties, professional musician from her hands, singer and guitarist going by her fingertips, severe alcoholic, going by her eyes, veins and general taste in clothing."

"What does that have to do with the murder?" asked John.

"Everything," Sherlock replied with his now-we're-getting-somewhere grin. "She's been drunk-very drunk- in the past hour, but she was conscience when he killed her." Sherlock rubbed his hair in thought. "The killer wanted her awake when he killed slit her throat."

"Him?"

"Yes, Him. It's a man. A strong man, and he took his sweet time with this."

An eerie silence was interrupted by Lana shutting the door with a soft snap. "I hope I'm not intruding-"

"Not at all; come in." John replied.

Lana crossed the room quickly and squatted down beside Sherlock, set her bag on the blood-stained carpet, and got right down to business.

"Have you found the murder weapon?"

"The killer took it with him," Sherlock replied, still staring at Vixen's corpse. "And based on the force of the attack, the lack of severe struggling on the clothes, and the weapon used, I know who he is."

"You do?" Molly looked amazed.

"Yes, Ms. Hooper, I do. At least, I know WHAT he is," Sherlock replied, getting to his feet. "Now, we only need to alert LeStrade and we can be on our way to catching the killer, I believe."

"But-but, the window's smashed," Molly babbled, pointing out the obvious and pressing on past Sherlock's despairing look. "Wouldn't that mean he's escaped off the grounds?"

Sherlock laughed. "This is my brother's home; no one can leave without his expressed permission. Trust me; he's trapped here just like the rest of us."

That was when the door locked, the sound of the bolt loud in their ears.

John, Molly and Lana gave each other looks of surprise and mild confusion; Sherlock, on the other hand, looked bored.

"So, you think that's enough to stop us?" he called toward the door. "It really is rather pathetic of you, I must say. I expected better."

The door, of course, said nothing. His words were greeted with silence.

John slammed his weight against the door with a painful- sounding thud.

"Don't bother," Sherlock snapped, feeling his pockets and swearing under his breath. "Remember? Mycroft's home-so no one is going anywhere. Damn! No lock picking-equipment-"

"Then what do we do?" asked Molly, wringing her hands. "We don't have any way to contact anyone, and who knows what he might do to us?"

"Calm down, Molly-" John tried to cut in, but Molly seemed right on the edge of a full-blown panic attack and in no mood to listen to anyone, so Lana took control of the situation. Stepping up to Molly, Lana delivered her usual pay-attention routine; a good smack and a shake of the shoulders.

"Listen to me, Molly! I can get us out of here!"

Molly blinked, her hyperventilating slowly returning to normal breathing.

"I don't mean to be rude, but what the bloody hell are you talking about?" asked John, as Lana reached into her bag and started digging.

She emerged, victoriously, holding her gear. "Get rid of most of that glass," she ordered, slipping into the harness and stringing the rope through the curtain rod. Then she looped the rope through the bed post and stepped back to admire her handy-work.

It would hold. Probably.

John kicked away the last of the glass from the frame as Lana stepped up to the open black night. She shivered slightly, then grabbed her bag and swung out over the wall of the house. Below her, the house looked like a sea of rippling black. It wasn't far, only about a three-story drop, but she still felt a surge of nervous adrenaline as she looked back at Molly, John and Sherlock.

Lana smiled. "Five minutes, I promise."

John and Molly nodded. Molly looked relieved and stepped away from the cold as Sherlock drew closer to the open window and held onto Lana's rope.

"Rappelling gear?"

"So I'm prepared," Lana replied. "Now can you move your hand?"

Sherlock stubbornly refused to release the rope. "Just be quick and be careful, alright? There's a murderer out there."

"I think this is hardly the time to remind me," she said, looking down again, almost as if she expected the ground to have moved down about ten stories.

Sherlock sighed and let go of the rope. "Five minutes."

"Four and a half," she said, and dropped out of sight.

Dark and freezing air whipped past her face as she dropped through space, lightly bouncing off the wall to keep from crashing full speed and breaking her back. Down past windows and curtains before the rope stopped with a jerk and she found herself inches from the ground to the right of a huge glass window. The ground next to her sparkled with the remains of the window, and as gingerly as she stepped, she still felt a piece slash through the flesh of her foot. Holding back a cry of pain, Lana skirted the edge of the house until she found an unlocked side entrance.

As Lana opened the door, something white caught her eye, stuffed into the bushes. She drew closer, being careful of her hurt foot, and pulled the torn and bloody shirt and jacket from its hiding place.

And then it started to make sense.

Throwing the jacket and shirt into her bag, Lana slipped into the house and moved through the now-silent halls. Minutes before, this whole place had been filled with Mycroft's uniformed staff, running platters of food to the great room. Now, they were silent and gave off an eerie, depressing feel of lowliness and total solitude.

Which was not a happy thought to have when there was a murderer in the house.

Lana shoved the evidence in her bag as she entered the great room. It was full of guests and staff, talking and trying to act as though nothing was wrong. The band had abandoned their post in the chaos, and music now seeped from a stereo system installed through the room, adding more to the babble. Lana paused despite herself, realizing she recognized the excited tune that was bouncing off the walls.

"Panic! at the Disco?" she asked herself, watching a group of celebrities spin across the dance floor to the tune of 'Hurricane'.

"Lana."

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Lana turned ready for a fight, arms raised…

"Keep your hair on, it's only me," LeStrade muttered. "Any news?"

"They're locked in the upstairs bedroom; so we know the killer's somewhere in the house." Lana explained quietly, showing LeStrade the shirt and jacket as discretely as possible. "We have some evidence in here, and we'll all be downstairs in a minute or two."

LeStrade nodded grimly and watched as she raced up the steps, bare feet barely touching the ground.

….

_She had escaped. _

_It was impossible. IMPOSSIBLE. They had nothing when they went in that room. It was three stories high, and the grass was covered in glass. _

_SO HOW HAD SHE ESCAPED?_

_And that meant that if she was out, Holmes wouldn't be far behind. _

_She left the DI and started to disappear up the stairs. _

_A plan took shape, and took root in his brain, a twisted smile playing on his face._

_She had blundered. _

_You couldn't trust the coppers with anything. Especially not information. _

_He started off, following the DI through the crowd._

…_._

"Five minutes, four seconds." Sherlock replied when she got the door open.

Lana rolled her eyes and tossed him the bag, and then sat down on the bed and yanked the piece of glass out of her heel, letting it bleed out onto Mycroft's already ruined carpet.

Sherlock, ignoring the fact that his girlfriend was bleeding all over the floor, opened the bag and his eyes grew wide with excitement. "Where did you get this?" he asked.

"From behind a bush at a side entrance," she responded, placing the glass on the table and watching him practically dancing on the spot. He then dropped the jacket on the bed, stepped over the corpse, and kissed her.

_It was oddly gross and sweet at the same time_, Lana thought_, kissing at a murder scene_.

"This is perfect; we have all the evidence we need now!" Sherlock said, helping Lana to her feet and gesturing to the other two to follow as he led them all out the door. "Now we need to catch him."

"What makes you think he's not hiding?" asked John as they headed down the hall, back toward the other guests.

"He's too cocky for that," Sherlock replied. "And since he's out there, I'll know him when I see him."

They arrived at the top of the stairs to find orderly chaos. The party was continuing with much of its renewed vigor, with the members of the yard walking through and questioning staff and guests at random.

Sherlock plunged his hand into Lana's bag and drew out the Colt. Then he turned and fired three shots into the ceiling. The guests turned in alarm, in time to see a tall skinny man with a gun bearing down on them. And it probably would have turned into absolute chaos then and there if he hadn't commanded all of them to shut up.

Sherlock stepped onto the floor and took charge. "Listen to me, all of you. I need you all to move to the right side of the hall, thank you very much. And now if all the female guests and staff could move to the left that would be sparkling. Hurry up now, we don't have all day."

Terrified and confused, the guests and staff followed his instructions in mute, terrified silence. All the women crowed together in a tight huddle, pressed against the left wall. The men stood stock-still, a forest of black jackets and white shirts, as Sherlock handed the gun back to Lana and walked down the stairs into their midst. Lana could hear him issuing instructions as he wove between them, moving some here and some there, looking for something she couldn't quite understand.

"If you could move here, sir. And you, in the disgusting orange shirt, please join him. Yes, you over there, and you, sir, step back just a bit; thank you."

Sherlock suddenly stopped, and a sly and slow smile spread over his face. He stepped around a portly man in a loud purple suit, past two men in waiter's uniforms, and stopped in front of someone Lana couldn't see.

"You, sir. Don't bother acting surprised, I know it's you. How do I know? Well, first off, you're staff; the victim was a continuous alcoholic and was led upstairs without struggle or signs of suspicion. None of the other guests would have bothered to help her- they're all too busy showing off to my brother to bother- so, staff member it is then. The gender of the killer is statistically more likely a male, and the force used on the body suggested someone of great height and strength; certainly no female on the staff fits that criteria, so male it is. We found a man's staff jacket and shirt stashed in the bushes along the side of the house; large, coated in blood, designed for someone about 6' 7''. That narrows the field considerably, in fact it brings it down to you and two other men on the staff, but the strains on the fabric suggest someone well toned; the other two are too skinny and wouldn't be able to fill out the clothing anyway, nor do either of them possess the strength necessary to tear someone's throat open. Conclusion, the only one with the physical abilities to commit this murder is you. Now if you would please cooperate with the Yard; I know I'm not wrong and I'd like to avoid a scene."

Lana and John, curious and confused, stepped off the stairs and moved into the crowd, pushing past those who couldn't get out of their way fast enough.

….

It was the blond waiter.

Lana blinked twice, and the image didn't change. It was the pompous waiter who had handed her her bag and said 'Please follow me.'

And just when she was starting forward, the waiter picked up Sherlock and threw him against the glass with a resounding crack.

Sherlock had him by the arm and the cops were closing in, and he had simply picked Sherlock up off the ground and swung him into the glass wall.

Sherlock slid to the floor with a groan, and then pulled himself to his feet and threw a punch at the oncoming man that knocked him aside. He wavered into a group of women in small black dresses, and they shrieked and disappeared back into the crowd. As the man turned back toward Sherlock, fists raised, John ran forward and grabbed the man by the back of the shoulders. They staggered across the floor, guests and staff screaming and running out of the way as John brought the man to the ground with a bang. LeStrade ran forward, gun raised, closely followed by Donovan and Anderson. Soon it became impossible to see the blond waiter at all beneath the pile of bodies and fabrics. And then he was on his feet, held by the arms, blood trickling from a small gash in his head. Donovan was pulling him across the floor and LeStrade was screaming for his backup. John stumbled out of the group and came to meet Lana while the officers dragged the killer through the sea of guests. He was swearing in some bizarre language and spitting at anyone who got too close.

As John and Lana headed for the exit, Sherlock came to meet them. He was rubbing his head from, no doubt bruised from the collision with the glass, but seemed otherwise fairly cheerful.

"Well, that was a pleasant evening, I'll have to speak to Mycroft about his staffing choices, though; this just seems lazy on his part…"

He fell silent as they walked through the double doors into the cold night. LeStrade was forcing the killer into the back of a police car, barking orders at the officer in the front seat.

"And get this one back to London quick as you can, you hear me? And I don't want any mistakes. Now move it along!"

The car sped down the drive and disappeared into the foggy night. LeStrade turned back to the group on the steps, and his anger and stress softened into lines of exhaustion.

"Not quite the night I was expecting."

"I guess not," said John, "but I guess things can only be so normal; could we maybe have a ride home?"

….

_The night shot by, black and grey and cold as the car sped back to London. The bite of the handcuffs into his flesh was starting to hurt, but he didn't dare complain._

_The officer spoke first. "So, you tore her throat open? Seems a bit harsh."_

"_Just following orders," he replied. "Killed the girl, left the message. Everything went according to plan. Nobody said I couldn't have a little fun."_

"_According to plan? Really? I thought they escaped earlier than expected and got you arrested. When was this part of your plan?"_

"_Just a hiccup," he bragged, looking out the window and trying to ignore the force of the handcuffs. "My employer knows what he's doing."_

_He looked back at the driver, the man with the dark hair and the dark expression. "You do know what you're doing, right?"_

_Jim Moriarty smiled in the rearview mirror. "Of course I do." _

_Up next- The Perfect Crime_

_In which there are plans, text message transcripts, and the beginning of the end._

…_._

_Hello! _

_Ok, I know this was a long wait. A lot happened really fast and I haven't gotten a chance to write anything for a long time. _

_Family stuff. Don't worry about it. But there's been wedding plans and battling cancer and moving and GAAAAH stuff. _

_Well school has started and left me little time to do much of anything now. So I'm basically writing on the weekends like a madwoman. I've set myself deadlines for this and some other short stories I'm writing._

_But I guess that it's good that this only has four chapters left._

_I've given myself a limit, so I'll do my best to make these last few chapters the best they can be. Please leave comments; I'd love to hear opinions!_

_Unless you're my brother, who crashed my old laptop by playing slender on it (RAGEQUITDESKFLIP)_

_Special thanks to my friend Ryan for this chapter; he was kind enough to pull me out of my writer's block/ panic spiral and get me back into production. Also being the inspiration for the murderer._

_By the way, Pond now has a fanfiction account. Look her up! She has some amazing stories to tell. Her pen name is GloriousPond. _

_Till next time, _

_Jay_


	19. The Perfect Crime

_Up next- The Perfect Crime_

_In which there are plans, text message transcripts, and the beginning of the end_

Life at Baker Street had settled into what could only be called basic, comforting monotony. The timer had been set, counting down the days until everything changed.

_20 days, 14 hours, 3 minutes_

"Got it," Sherlock exclaimed, slamming his hands on the arms of the chair and yanking Lana out of her book. John poked his head out from behind his laptop.

"What?"

"Edward LePage never committed suicide. He's alive and well and living off his younger brother's life insurance."

"Where is he?"

"Tahiti."

"Mmm, sun and surf; I could go for that." Lana commented, turning to look out the window at the snow blowing outside. "Let's go to Tahiti for Christmas; what do you say?"

"I'd say remember our empty wallets," Sherlock replied as he started texting LeStrade to inform him he had solved the case the Yard had been working on for weeks.

"You never know, Sherlock; maybe you'll solve a huge case and we can all go to the tropics. It'd be our Christmas miracle."

"I don't bother believing in miracles," Sherlock replied, tossing his phone onto the chair and moving to the bedroom to hunt down some nicotine patches.

_17 days, 20 hours, 36 minutes_

"John, could you hand me the Christmas lights?" Lana asked from next to the mantle.

The John in question was buried up to his waist in a box of ornaments and seemed unable to move, so Lana set down the garland she was holding and went to dig them out herself, pulling her friend out of the box on the way.

"Thanks." John held out the colored lights and attempted to untangle the tinsel that had wrapped around his legs. He looked like a trussed-up turkey in a striped jumper. While John fought a losing battle with the tinsel, Lana wrapped the garland in Christmas lights and laid them over the mantel.

"Well, that's unnecessarily gaudy," Sherlock said as he wove his way through the mess of Christmas ornaments strewn across the carpet.

"'Tis the season," Lana replied, starting to add some ornaments to the tree they had shoved through the door two days ago. Sherlock watched with mild interest, examining the tree up and down, looking, no doubt, for a flaw.

"It needs something for the top."

"Yes, well," John replied, having freed himself from his holiday shackles and was presently threading them through the needles, "we would have put a star on top…if someone hadn't decided to throw it out window…two Christmases ago."

"Is that what happened to it?" Sherlock asked in surprise, pulling out a purple Christmas ball and toying with it absentmindedly.

"You could make yourself useful and help," Lana pointed out.

"Fine." Sherlock hung the purple ball on a branch and strode out of the room. There was a long silence, in which John and Lana exchanged a look; and then crashing sounds started coming out of the hall bedroom. The noise subsided into light swearing and background noise as Lana and John turned back to the tree.

They had just plugged in the lights when Sherlock returned, carrying…

"Oh God, not the skull. Please Sherlock, no- what are you doing?"

"Helping."

The tallest of the three set the skull in its new home, an ever-staring Christmas star. They stepped back to admire their handiwork; one with disbelief, one with exhaustion, one with satisfaction.

"Hang on," Lana said, stepping forward. She reached into the box at her feet, pulled out the Father Christmas hat, and stuck it on his/hers/its head with grim pleasure.

"'Tis the season," Sherlock said, sinking into the nearest chair with a small smile.

_14 days, 13 hours, 58 minutes_

WHERE ARE YOU? –LH

Investigating. Go home. –SH

WHAT MAKES YOUTHINK I'M NOT AT HOME? –LH

I know when you're lying. Stop following me. This is dangerous. –SH

MAYBE I WANT TO HELP. –LH

Go help John; he's at home, drowning in wrapping paper. –SH

YOU DON'T WANT HIM TO KNOW WHAT UR DOING, DO YOU? –LH

You're the one who's following me. Are you reporting everything back to him like a good little lapdog? –SH

Lana shut her phone with a shiver. He was hitting way to close to home.

It wasn't John she was reporting back to.

After a few minutes silence, her phone buzzed. She picked it up.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. I'm just being nosey." She swallowed. "I worry about you."

It wasn't a complete lie.

There was a pause on the other end. "You sound like my brother."

"But I'm not as annoying?"

"No, you're annoying, but in a nice way."

Lana laughed. "Are you going to tell me what you're up to?"

Another long pause. "I'm investigating the Lambly case. I think there's more to this than just a simple kidnapping. Someone else is pulling the strings." There was a burst of static from the other end of the line, and she almost dropped the phone in alarm. "I'm losing a signal out here; I'll see you tonight."

"Alright, don't do anything stupid. See you soon."

"I love you."

The signal went dead. Lana stood in the street, holding the phone to her ear and turning a very soft pink.

That was the first time he had ever said that.

The phone buzzed again, and she looked down in surprise.

ANY NEWS FOR ME, SWEETIE? –XO JM

Lana shivered. Whenever she got a text from him, it meant she was being watched.

HE'S INVESTIGATING THE LAMBLY CASE. HE THINKS THERE'S SOMEONE BIGGER INVOLVED. –LH

WELL, OBVIOUSLY, HE'S RIGHT. –JM

Lana felt a rush of courage, almost like a bolt of lightning, and she typed a response

WHAT IF I JUST STOPPED DOING THIS? JUST STOPPED GIVING YOU INFORMATION? –LH

The answer was immediate.

THEN I WILL FIND YOU AND YOUR LOVED ONES AND KILL ALL OF THEM. –JM

WHERE ARE YOU? –LH

I AM EVERYWHERE. –JM

There was a horrible scream as suddenly the man walking in front of her dropped to the ground. Lana couldn't tell what had happened, thought maybe he had had a heart attack or something, but on closer inspection, her own heart seemed to fail. There was a thick knife buried in his chest.

Lana stared in mute horror as the man's eyes went glassy and his blood ran all over her shoes.

Her phone buzzed again in her limp, numb hand.

I HOPE I'VE MADE MYSELF CLEAR. HAPPY CHRISTMAS. –XO JM

Lana started running.

_11 days, 5 hours, 45 minutes._

"What are you doing up?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his damp hair with a towel as he entered the living room. Lana looked up from her laptop. She had long ago stopped paying attention, and now the words were swimming in lazy patterns through her brain. Outside the wind whistled by against the pitch black glass.

"What time is it?" she asked, closing her eyes and rubbing her sore face.

"Almost 2," Sherlock replied, sitting beside her and looking over her latest article.

"Why are you showering so late?"

"BORED," Sherlock stretched out over the couch, laying his head on Lana's lap and hanging his legs over the edge. "I've found being wet helps me think, and I had a hell of an idea. It was so engaging that I got out of bed and decided to shower to make sure I didn't file it away too soon."

"What were you thinking about?" Lana asked, shutting her laptop and staring down at him.

"Crime."

"What?"  
>"Specifically, the perfect crime. Even more specifically, the perfect crime I create."<p>

"You can't do that," Lana scoffed. "Nobody can create a completely flawless crime."

"Creating it should be child's play." He responded, sitting up. "Solving it… that's where it gets fun. You could only have the best mind's working on it."

"So we tell Mycroft too?"

"Please," Sherlock scoffed, offended. "My brother will have nothing to do with this. No, we need to show this to an average mind. And I think I know just the people."

"Who?"

"You two, of course. You and John."

Lana sighed. "So now we're your lab rats?"

"No, John's my lab rat; you're my girlfriend."

"Same thing."

Lana smiled and nestled herself in his chest. They sat, facing the window as the first snow started kissing the window panes. The wind picked up outside and they lay together watching the snow swirl outside, wrapped in the calm of each other's company.

Neither of them noticed the cameras across the street zooming in. they had no idea that through the entire night, they were being monitored.

_8 days, 1 hour, 15 minutes_

Missus Hudson kissed Lana on the cheek and opened the door for her. Both women winced at the blast of wind and snow that swirled into the hallway as Lana pushed her way out onto the frozen street.

"Let's go, John! The roads are going to be a fright as it is!"

John pounded down the steps, pulling on his hat and gloves as Lana waved for a taxi. London had awoken to find the fine dusting of snow from the night before had grown into a full-scale whiteout, and now the city buried under nearly a foot of ice and snow. The shops and trees were hung with frozen Christmas lights, and the sound of carols blared from inside the café next door.

Christmas at Baker Street was starting to look surprisingly normal.

The black cab pulled to the curb and Lana and John slid into the black interior, brushing snow off each other and trying to warm their already frozen hands and apologizing to the cabbie about the water already dripping onto his good seats.

"Heathrow airport please," Lana said to the back of the cabbie's head, and the car slid down the road in a spray of snow.

"So tell me about your mum," John said as they swerved down the road. "All you've told me is that she looks like you, works for the police, and she's coming for Christmas."

"That's all you really need to know; Emily speaks for herself. But if I need to tell you anything, it's don't call her Mrs. Heart; it makes her feel twenty years older and it reminds her she's divorced."

"Right," said John, shifting uncomfortably as he tried to pocket his gloves. "I'm glad she was willing to fly all the way out here for the holidays; it must have awful getting through customs and security in this mess."

"It's cheaper than the three of us flying over the states, and there's no way I'd risk taking you two back to Denver with me. We'd get in more trouble there then it's worth." Lana replied, gazing out at the snow-wrapped city. "I just hope she and Sherlock are compatible."

"What do you mean?"

"John, she's my single mother; she's like my mother and my father combined AND she's a cop. And Sherlock is…Sherlock. Why on earth wouldn't I be worried?"

"Ok, valid point." John sat back in the seat and took her arm. "It's going to be fine; it's not like she's staying at Baker street so she just needs to put up with Sherlock whenever she drops by. And I suppose we could try to arrange for Sherlock to be otherwise occupied while she's there if things are too uncomfortable between them."

Lana smirked. "Are you saying we should bribe Mycroft to keep his little brother running around London while my mother is here? Purely so that they don't get into a fight?"

"I'm saying it'll probably cost us a fortune, but it's an option."

"Let's just see how dinner goes," Lana said, as they pulled into Heathrow. "Thank God Mycroft won't be there too; Emily can really only take so much Holmes in one day."

"You say that like you don't think your mum will approve of the conditions you're living in. What does Emily think about you living with us, anyway?"

"To be honest, she thinks I'm pregnant," Lana replied as they stepped out of the cab "and that I'm crazy- tell him to wait, please- and she's using this as an excuse to overview the squalor she's convinced I'm living in."

"I'd hardly call it squalor," John laughed nervously as they stepped into the main terminal. Lana pulled out her phone and started dialing.

"True, we did clean up a little before we came here, but then again, we also left Sherlock at home with lead nitrate and a Bunsen burner."

"He's been well behaved all week and it was either that or cigarettes and I didn't want your mum to think we're all chain smokers."

Lana held up a finger as she spoke into the mouthpiece. "Hello, Emily? Yeah, we're here. Where are you? Which…WHICH BAGGAGE CLAIM?... speak up, I can't hear you… well if you don't know, then what's right in front of it?... Emily, there are thousands of little shops in here. What's it CALLED?... Ok, better… I don't CARE if it looks like something out of James Bond, just stay put already. I'll see you in a few, ok?"

Lana hung and rolled her eyes. "Of all the women to pick up from the airport, why did it have to be the one with absolutely NO sense of direction and the attention span of a squirrel? "

John laughed and followed her as they wove through travelers and staff members, looking for Emily.

The baggage claim was packed. People were yelling, hauling luggage, and calling for assistance, fighting for a place in line. They entered the fray together and within five minutes they were separated by a gaggle of backpack-toting tourists. Lana had barely gotten to the edge of the room when she was almost plowed over by a tall man in a trench coat and red converse.

"Sorry, have you seen a girl around here? About this high, blond, dark mascara?"

"Sorry, no," she replied, slightly annoyed. "I'm looking for someone too, so I'm probably wouldn't be the best person to ask. Talk to someone on the staff, or you could go in the shop and wait for her there."

"Perfect, I've always liked little shops; that's just brilliant; you are brilliant, now where's a pay phone?"

And in a swirl of coat and wave of people, he was gone. Lana shook her head in disbelief and finally sat down on a nearby bench. John waded his way out of the mess of people, straightening his jacket.

"Any luck?"

"Nope, I almost got run over though." Lana said, scanning the crowd.

"Lana!"

She jerked. So did John.

Standing not 10 feet away from them was a woman, holding a suitcase and wearing a huge smile. With a thump, she dropped her bag and opened her arms as Lana came running and gave her a hug so hard she almost knocked her over.

"Hi, Mom!"

Emily Heart was a woman of little height but unending energy. She had short, cropped brown hair, the exact shade of her daughters, an oval, angular face, and bright blue eyes that took in everything with an observant eye. Once she had released Lana, Emily stepped back and stared around Heathrow. "So, this is London. Looks like D.C, but it'll do. You ready to head out?"

"Of course," Lana laughed. "Where are you staying?"

"A small motel called the Grey Wolf Inn. Of course, that means next to nothing to me; I couldn't find my way out of an empty room."

"I know where that is," John spoke up, trying to find a way not to butt into the conversation. "Lovely to meet you officially, by the way. If you could just come this way; we have a taxi outside. Can I take your bags?"

"Of course," Emily said, handing over the suitcase. "You must be John; Lana described you perfectly. You're right dear, he IS a gentleman. By the way, you can just call me Emily; you don't have to be worried about formality."

John turned pink.

"Emily, leave him alone." Lana said as they threaded their way out of the baggage claim and headed for the exit. "If you're going to tease anyone, at least wait until we get back to Baker Street."

"Yes, where is that sociopathic boyfriend of yours? I'm dying to meet him." Emily said with a slightly manic sound that made Lana smile and John begin to fear for Sherlock's well being.

_Please God please, let him behave._

The ride back to Emily's hotel room and then to Baker Street was made mostly in silence and small snippets of conversation. Emily was talkative, but not pushy and accepted the death of the conversation when it happened. John liked her more and more as they shot through the snow covered streets; she was engaging and it was easy to forget things as the cab turned corners and squeezed through tight spots in the traffic. It wasn't until the cab had pulled up at Baker Street and the cabbie was asking for his fair that Lana and John remembered they were going to have to introduce Emily to the sociopath waiting upstairs.

The tension stretched so tightly you could feel it pressing on your lungs as Lana hauled Emily's case out of the trunk while John paid the cabbie. Missus Hudson came out onto the stoop about that time.

"Lana, John, thank goodness you're back! You had me worried sick going out on a day like this; it's all over the telly, the roads are in a right state." In a flurry of snow and jackets, Missus Hudson piled them all into the entrance and shut the door against the weather.

"You must be Emily! Wonderful to meet you dear, Lana's told me so much about you. Would you like some tea? I've just put some on; I'll bring it up in a bit. Just go on up, you lot."

Being careful not to leave water all over Missus Hudson's good floors, the threesome trooped up the stairs to the waiting door. Lana muttered a quick prayer and opened the door.

The flat was spotless, some delicious scent was wafting out of the kitchen, and Sherlock was stretched out in a chair, playing the violin as though nothing had happened. It was only when the door shut with a derisive snap that he looked around to acknowledge the party standing in the doorway. Everyone held their breath.

With a sweep of his jacket, Sherlock set down his violin and swept into a bow.

"Emily Heart, how lovely to meet you."

Lana turned white and turned to stare at her mother, as Emily looked Sherlock right in the face and fixed him with an all-knowing stare. There was a very long, very strained pause, and I must say the skull was enjoying this greatly; you couldn't buy this kind of entertainment.

"So you're the smart-ass boyfriend I've heard plenty about. Well, Lana, you didn't lie; he pulls off the gentleman act very well. I approve. Now, John, could you show me to the bathroom? 9 hours on a plane has done nothing for my constitution."

It took everyone about 4 seconds to react to what Emily had just said. (Technically it was 3.7- yes, Sherlock was counting.) Then John placed his newly discarded jacket on the back of a chair and led Emily out of the room and down the hall, trying his best to hide his glee at the look of utter shock on Sherlock's face.

Lana walked over to the kitchen and looked into the bubbling pot. "Thank God you actually know how to cook normal food; I was afraid you were stewing eyeballs or something for an experiment."

"I've been good all day out of fear of meeting your mother," Sherlock replied, scratching his head and trying to clear it. "I must say, I expected it to be a bit easier to read her, but I think I got most of it. Shall I wait until dinner to dazzle her with my uncompromising wit?"

"Wit, my ass; you were trying to be a gentleman and she completely shut you down." Lana replied, pulling placemats and forks out of the neighboring drawers to begin setting the table. "To be honest I had no idea how she would react."

"And?"

"And what?"

"You've done this before; I know I'm not the first boyfriend you've ever had." Sherlock gave her a pleading look. "Does she approve or not?"

Lana laughed and tossed him a dishrag. "I can't tell you that; that would be cheating. And anyway, I though you like the thrill of the investigation. And you can go where no man has gone before; the mind of my mother."

Sherlock wound his arms around her, pulling her into a makeshift dishcloth-lasso. "I suppose there's some truth in that. On the other hand, there wasn't much data to work with."

"There was plenty of data, you just weren't paying attention," John said, walking in on the conversation and the pulling plates out of a nearby cabinet.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock replied, sliding his hands along Lana waist and pulling her into an improvised slow dance in the middle of the kitchen.

"Really, you two? Can't it wait?" asked John.

His question was answered by a very long, very passionate kiss between the other two flat mates. John rolled his eyes and got back to work, ignoring them to the best of his abilities, and started spooning portions of pasta onto the plates.

"And just what do you think you're doing with my daughter?"

John smiled inwardly as Lana and Sherlock jumped apart.

Emily was standing in the door to the kitchen, wearing a black sweater and an ill-contained smirk.

Sherlock let go of her at once and swept dramatically out of the room and down the stairs, where he remained until dinner, much to Lana's amusement.

Dinner was a very enjoyable affair. Emily and Sherlock kept each other in check, Lana and John laughed at their friend's expense, and they all could forget about old enemies and dark plans.

And even when Emily drove to her hotel for the night and Lana and Sherlock passed out on the couch, that buoyed feeling of contentment carried them through the night.

Things were good.

_5 days, 14 hours, 16 minutes_

She was sick with a cold when they came for her.

Lana was knocked out with a stuffy nose, high fever and a congested brain on the couch, and John was out at Sarah's. Emily was touring the city, and Sherlock was in the kitchen, making chicken soup and trying (without much success) to cure the common cold.

And then the door was rocked with a loud crack as someone on the other side attempted to force their way through.

Sherlock dropped the pan on the floor with a bang and a slosh of chicken soup all over the floor as a second bang almost broke the door down. He reached Lana just as the door broke out of its frame and dropped with a crash into the living room.

Three men swept into the room, big, tall and armed to the teeth. Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh.

"Let me guess; your boss sent you to pick something up from Baker Street. From the looks of you, it's something I'm not about to let you have. And you've been watching the house, obviously; you know we're the only one's here, so you're either here for me or for her. And I highly doubt your boss knows what- "

"Shut it," said the tallest of the three; he seemed to be the closest to a leader. He gestured to the other two. "Get her."

Lana shrank back as they moved toward her.

"That won't be necessary; I can simply stop you now if I choose to," Sherlock commented as he stepped between Lana and the oncoming men. "Or, if you'd like, you can wait until you're down the stairs so it can feel like you're winning."

One of the men raised his gun. "Move away."

"Not going to happen."

"Move!" Said another. He cocked the gun.

"You'll have to shoot me first."

"Perfectly fine," he replied, and pulled the trigger.

Lana screamed as the bullet went through Sherlock into the wall behind her and he staggered back into her, holding his shoulder and roaring with pain. One of the intruders pushed him aside, and another picked up a biting, kicking and screaming Lana and carried her across the room-

"SHERLOCK!"

The other two men pulled him down onto the living room and Lana was carried from his line of sight, disappearing down the dim stairway. Now that they were alone, the two remaining men then proceeded to attempt to pound the life out of him with all the strength they possessed.

Sherlock took in as much as he could from his position- which was quite a lot, to be honest. But he was also having a bit of a focus issue because he was so blinded by rage, panic, and pain. Kicking and punching, he pulled every amount of data he could out of his two attackers.

_Tall, six foot three, six foot one, scars on hands, harbor men, fish hook scars, alcohol, cigarettes, poor quality, mud on shoes, water, snow, tears on coat sleeve, probably from dog, brass knuckles, Irish accents, traveling boots, gloves, spray paint, messengers, fact, fact, factfactfactfact_

_WHAM_

With a final, powerful blow, the man that Sherlock wasn't biting landed a punch to the back of his head, and the world's only consulting detective crumpled onto the floor.

Lana was halfway down the stairs, screaming at the top of her lungs as Sherlock hit the ground. Her captor swung her off of his shoulder and pulled a rag from his pocket, stuffing it over her mouth and nose. As Lana felt the chloroform take over, she saw the winter-wrapped world of London materialize, then fade around her as the man carrying her through her into the backseat of a van. Then everything was dark.

….

John came home to find the door standing wide open.

With terror growing in the pit of his stomach, he threw himself up the stairs to find chaos in the living room.

Books had been torn from the shelves and were stacked in some sort of labyrinth that spread across the room into the kitchen. There were several new bullet holes in the wall, along with what looked horribly like blood stains on the wallpaper, and everything smelled like burning chemicals.

Sherlock was shirtless, with a good deal of gauze and ace bandage bound around his left shoulder. He was pouring over a giant map and snapping at LeStrade, who was standing beside him, looking grim. Two other officers were writing something down in a notebook. And Mycroft was staring at the windows where a huge message had been written in spray paint.

_It's not over until I say it's over. Come and Play._

John took a moment before he spoke.

"What's happened, Sherlock?"

His best friend turned to look at him, with the look that John had never seen before; fire and ice and rage and calculations and something else; was it despair? John couldn't tell, but Sherlock didn't speak, he seemed beyond speech, and finally it was Mycroft who spoke.

"They took her, John. Moriarty took Lana."

_To be continued…_

_Dun, dun, dun…._

_I'd love some feedback on how you feel about this. The countdown's far from over; we still have chapters to fill! But I hoped you enjoyed the beginning of the end. _

_Hope to hear from you soon!_

_Jay_


	20. The Hunt and the Hunted

The Hunt and the Hunted

_In which there are plans, explosives and sad music_

_3 days, 20 hours, 35 minutes_

The room was beautifully decorated. Classy, but modern. Nothing over the top, everything was neat and clean; there was no sign anyone had been in here. The room was warm, but not without the creepy hotel room feel. It was spacious and open, a wide, three-room suite with handsome furniture and its own kitchen.

If it weren't for the handcuffs, Lana would have felt fine.

Struggling to regain feeling in her fingers, Lana shifted her position in the chair and tried to find a way to look around. She couldn't see much from her position in the middle of the room; if she wanted to explore her situation further, she would have to get the cuffs off. They were tight, biting into her flesh as she strained and wiggled to no avail. There was just no changing the fact she would have to wait for someone to come and uncuff her.

She thought about Sherlock. God, she prayed he was ok. He had dropped so fast, there had been such a huge spray of red…

She was going to kill Jim. It didn't matter what else happened- she was going to kill him as many times as it took for him to be destroyed.

A door opening behind her pulled her from her murderous thoughts.

"Hello, Lana."

Lana gritted her teeth. "You bastard."

"Language, sweetie," Jim said snidely, taking hold of her clenched fists and working at the locks on the handcuffs. "I really don't want these to become necessary." With a soft click, the cuffs were removed from her wrists, and Lana rubbed them in an attempt to push the blood back into her fingers. She still didn't turn to face him.

"Why am I here?"

"You're here because Sherlock needed a little nudge in the right direction."

"Nudge?" Lana couldn't believe her ears. "You had him shot!"

"Nowhere vital, I assure you. And he needed to know I've had enough of his stalling and to get a move on with things." Lana heard Jim pocket the handcuffs behind her with a clink. "I assume you're wondering where you are?"

"And I'm assuming you're not going to tell me."

"Clever girl."

Lana kept her back firmly to him. "So your plan is to keep me here until Sherlock does what you want?"

Jim laughed. "Essentially. But you're missing the main point. I suppose that's to be expected, of course, but I really hoped you would have realized my plan already, after all that time we spent in conversation."

"What are you talking about?" she could feel him getting closer. "You've had me funnel information to you to keep track of his movements. That has nothing to do with a master plan except to make sure he's in the right position when you decide to strike. And I already know you don't need me to tell you where he is."

"But that's exactly my POINT!" Jim said with a cold snap. "The whole point of this little game, this pointless little drama of ours, was to make YOU do it for me. It was never about the information; it's about the control, the KNOWLEDGE that I have a weapon far better than anything Sherlock could create. And I intend to use it for as long as I can."

"What are you going to do to him." it wasn't a question.

"I feel like you should really be asking that about yourself. You're the one I'm holding hostage."

"I'm not important," Lana said with a deadpan look, trying to flush all emotion out of her system and leaving her with nothing but merciless rage. "If there's nothing for him to follow, and no puzzle for him to solve, then you've wasted your time; he'll lose interest."

"You give yourself such little credit," Jim replied, fingering her hair and staring her down with a freezing, cheerless grin. "Normally, I'd agree with you, but this is hardly normal circumstances."

"He's not some white knight if that's what you're getting at. A damsel in distress means nothing to him."

"Unless the damsel in question is someone he cares about," he said. "Someone he knows. Someone he loves, and will do anything in his power to protect."

"What makes you think he loves me? He doesn't like complications."

"He said so himself."

Lana felt the fight drain out of her.

He knew.

She had no idea how, but Jim had ripped down her last defense. And there was nothing she could do because he was right. They both knew that Sherlock was fiercely loyal to those he wanted to protect. Which meant that one way of another, he was going to come looking for her. And Lana was horrified at the thought of what might be waiting for him.

"Please," she breathed, turning her eyes to the floor. "Leave him alone. You can kill me, torture be; just don't make him come looking for me."

Jim smiled. "That's what I wanted to hear. Total surrender. But now, I'm going to push you to your limits, and then even farther. So," he grabbed her face and forced her to look at him. "Shall we begin?"

….

The maid was vacuuming the hallway outside, headphones in, volume up, chewing gum stuck in her molars. As she paused to adjust her hair and try without success to dislodge the gum, the song switched and she heard the screaming.

It was raw, dark, a bit like an animal. It came in bursts and waves, pitching from the other side of the wall.

The maid stuck her ear buds more firmly in her ears and turned the vacuum back on. Whoever lived in the apartment had left the TV on again; it was a bad habit of his.

Humming along to the new tune, the maid kept moving down the hallway.

….

_3 days, 12 hours, 12 minutes_

He was talking to himself again.

John never knew what to do when Sherlock started talking to the walls, or the chair, or to the air in front of him. He only did it when one of two things happened; either John wasn't home or a case was going nowhere fast.

Sherlock had been up now for 36 hours; his eyes were hollowed and red, his skin waxy and sallow. He had refused any help from anyone, and any mentions of sleep were met with an ice-cold glare.

The flat was a wreck; books and maps of London dominated the living room, fighting for space alongside the piles of sheet music and cigarette butts. Used-up pens were lying on the carpet like carcasses, sharing the floor with pillows, feathers and Sherlock's violin. The Sherlock in question was curled on the couch, pouring over a huge map of the London underground and writing frantically in a notebook perched on his knee. His bandages were falling off where he hadn't bothered to change them. There were feathers in his hair and ink stains all over his wrists; leftovers from writing up from his wrist to his elbow when he had run out of paper.

John couldn't hear what the conversation was about, but he could hear the faint undertones for Sherlock's muttering and the pregnant pauses he was taking, as though he was allowing his invisible partner to finish their thoughts before he continued.

At least Emily wasn't here to see him like this. He had sent her on a tour of the city, claiming Lana was still recovering from a cold and had been quarantined to the back room of the flat by Sherlock. She had been gone most of the day, but John wasn't sure what was going to happen when she got back.

No. he couldn't think about that. He had to stay occupied. Keep Emily away. Find Lana as fast as possible.

Stepping gingerly over two piles of maps and a singed dressing gown, John reached out to his best friend.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock jerked and fixed him with a look that would have sent anyone else into the corner in shame. John gazed steadily back.

"Do you have anything useful to say, John?"

"Yes, actually," John replied, pulling the notebook off his friend's knee and reaching to roll up the map. "You, of all should know what happens when the body doesn't get enough sleep. Staying up and not sleeping at all isn't going to help Lana and it's not going to help you find her faster.

"So, and I mean this as a friend, you are going to put the pen down and get your ass in bed, because if you don't do it willingly, Sherlock Holmes, I am going to sedate you and drag you in there."

Sherlock tried to pretend he wasn't listening. But after five minutes of trying to banish John away with his thoughts, Sherlock tossed his pen on the table and sat up, pulling feathers out of his hair.

"An hour. No more."

"Five." John said, snapping a rubber band around the map.

"Two."

"Three."

"Done." Sherlock turned on his heel and staggered into this room, white feathers still trailing after him like new fallen snow.

Once the door slammed shut, John turned back to the piles of information, the stacks of data and the columns of maps. It was a collection of anything and everything they could find in the flat that could possible help them find her. Moriarty hadn't made it easy for him, leaving behind nothing but the spray-painted message and a page of numbers that seemed to have no meaning. With a sigh and newfound determination, John took Sherlock's place on the couch.

Later, when John went to check on him, Sherlock had disappeared.

"Jesus," John raked his hands through his hair and stared out the open window into the cold night. He should have seen this coming; Sherlock would never have just lay down and listened to John when he had something he'd rather be doing. He could be halfway across London by now.

John turned on his heel and charged down the hallway. He grabbed his parka, his gloves, and slipped on his shoes, banging his way down the stairs and brushing past Missus Hudson on her way through the door.

The cold wind carried him through back alleys and broken-down bus stations, to old warehouses that smelled like river water and disappointment. John had left his watch at home, but the clock was chiming on the other side of the river; it was two o clock in the morning, and there was still no sign of his friend. John had lost hope of Sherlock responding to the wave of texts he sent him in the past hour as he sank onto a bench on charring cross road. The occasional taxi shot by, and pop music beat out the windows of a nearby pub. John buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples, and tried to think.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he looked up with a start.

WATERLOO BRIDGE. S

John started to his feet and hailed for a taxi.

….

_2 days 23 hours, 13 minutes_

The bridge was silent and shrouded in mist as the taxi pulled up alongside it. John thrust some bills into the cabbies hand and started walking.

He found him about a quarter of the way across the bridge. Sherlock was a dark figure in the mist, his head hanging down surrounded by curls. He seemed like a skeleton, weighed down by his coat and his general misery. He was shaking.

John took a deep breath and leaned alongside him. "How long have you been here?"

"Since I went through the city and ended up here." Sherlock didn't look up; he just kept staring at whatever he was turning over in his hands.

"What's that?" it looked a bit like a watch chain.

Sherlock held it up, catching it in the glow of a nearby street lamp. It was a silver necklace, long a simple, with a pendant of glass on the end in a perfect circle. Basic but beautiful, it sparkled in the solitary street lights. Sherlock dropped it back into his hands and closed his eyes. "I was going to give this to her. On Christmas. Now it's just sentiment and something else I don't need to hold on to."

"You can't give up on her now. Look, we're going to find her, Sherlock. You're brilliant and you're going to find her."

"And what if there's nothing left to find, John. We know how Moriarty plays this game. We know that he goes for the things we care about most and effectively destroys them. And we know that he does it whenever it suits him, whenever he wants an enjoyment, and right now his greatest joy is watching me stay trapped here, trapped in my own logic, tearing myself apart and unable to move, so that when I do find him, I am nothing and I have nothing left because he can take away what I love and he can watch me dance for something that no longer exists. Because I am compelled to, ruled by impulse, and I need to destroy that so that I can get back on track. Do you understand what's going to happen now, because she's dead and I'm falling into everything I swore I never would, for anyone?"

John punched him.

Sherlock staggered back, and for a moment he blurred behind the mist as John advanced on him. "For the love- WILL YOU CUT THE CRAP AND DEAL WITH THE PROBLEM?! You care about her, and that makes you strong, THAT should be what's keeping you fighting and wanting to help her and find her and save her. She made you decent, Sherlock, and I am NOT going to watch you toss this all away because you're afraid of a broken heart. It's part of being human! Now you go, and you find her NOW because so help me you actually love her, Sherlock, and I am not going to let you pass this up for anything!"

His words echoed across the silent bridge. Somewhere out in the night, a ship's foghorn moaned. Sherlock gripped the edge of the bridge, the necklace in daggling dangerously over the edge. He rubbed his reddening jaw and blinked to get the rushing river below him back into focus. There was a moment of silence, punctured by the two men's sharp, deep breaths. Then Sherlock finally stepped forward and pressed the necklace into John's hand.

"Make sure I don't lose this; I still need to give it to her."

He turned on his heel and walked away through the mist. John smiled after his retreating figure, then turned on his heel and headed back the way he came.

When he got home several minutes later, he found Sherlock, fast asleep on the couch, next to a list of hotels and rented apartment complex. On a small scrap of paper, he had written a word in untidy, half-asleep scrawl.

_Lana_

…_._

_33 hours_

Jim stood in front of the solitary window, looking out at city below him. Ordinary people, living their ordinary lives, so corruptible, so easily swayed, so very naïve… it was all so boring. Jim looked down at his hands. In the light, he could clearly see the blood under his nails starting to dry.

He turned away from the window to face the quivering mass on the floor. Lana was curled in a fetal position; her clothes ripped open in some places and her skin a spider web of red. Her hair was cut short; hacked away to right above her chin. And when she raised her head, Jim could see her bruised face and gaunt, pale look.

He grinned; not bad for a couple days of work.

Jim bent in close so Lana could hear, speaking softly, letting the joy of the words roll off his tongue. "He's coming to get you. You failed. You might have chosen to not cooperate, but you failed all the same."

Lana glared back at him defiantly, but said nothing. Jim stared back, and then reached out, catching Lana by the hair and yanking back her head as she bit back a scream.

"Listen up, you little bitch, did you hear me? Your boyfriend is still coming after all that. I guess he really does feel for you. But then, all ordinary people have to feel something once in a while. That's why I don't ever bother." Jim released her and Lana flopped back onto the carpet. "Now I really must be off; I have things to do, people to see, bombs to wire, your death to plan- I'm swamped."

Jim stepped over her and swept out of the hotel room, the bolt sliding into place with a defiant click.

At once, Lana was on her feet, swaying slightly from the head rush.

It had worked. All that taking the torture, letting him beat her with words, fists, any number of the many things he had done to her, all of it had been leading up to this moment; when he had left her alone.

Ignoring the door completely, Lana slid into the next room, searching everywhere large enough to hold a mobile phone. In dressers, drawers, in jacket pockets. Her search came up empty, and she was just about to lose all hope to frustration when she found it- a disused phone sitting on a rack high above in the closet. Lana pulled it down, flinching at the clatter of plastic as it fell into her hands. The wires were frayed, but usable, and she could barely control her bounding heart as she knelt down and plugged the phone into the outlet. She held the phone up to her ear, praying, blood beating in her ears.

A dial tone, faint and scratchy, sounded in the earpiece.

Lana was so relieved she started shaking so badly she could barely dial the number. Every pore of her body was alive with tension as she punched the buttons, listening as hard as she could for the sound of any approaching footsteps.

The phone started ringing.

….

Sherlock was examining various photos of abandoned warehouses and buildings for sale when his phone rang.

Without missing a beat, he dropped the photos into a neat pile and scooped up the phone, not even bothering to look at the number.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Ragged breathing was heard on the other end.

"Hello?"

A moment of silence, and then,

"Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed the phone so close to his ear it hurt. "Lana."

"I…I…" She fell silent.

"Is the line tapped?"

"I don't know. I found it in the closet. It wasn't connected but that doesn't mean much."

"Ok, I need you to talk fast then. Do you know where you are?"

"Not exactly. But I have a pretty good idea. Do you have a pen?"

"I'll remember." His breath was coming out fast now, chest tight and lungs contracted as Lana spoke as fast as she could, rattling off everything she could into the phone between terrified gasps of air.

"We're near the river, I can smell it and hear things…but I'm high up. Somewhere high up. Hotel. I don't know which one."

"What's defining about the room? Symbols, colors, anything, give me something to work with."

"It's all…blue with grey trim, there's paper with a symbol on it but no name-"

"Describe it."

"A silver lion, with, um, vines and a dagger underneath it. That's all, there isn't any more." Lana took a deep breath. "Sherlock please don't come get me, send officers or something but please don't come and get me, it's what he wants, he'll kill you-"

She heard the door slide open and broke off with a terrified gasp. "He's here, he's-"

Sherlock hung up.

….

"The Falling View Suites?" asked John.

"It fits her description; near the river, twenty three stories and the insignia has a lion and dagger on it. It's got to be it."

Sherlock had left John kneeling beside the coffee table, peering over a well-abused map of London. He was now rifling through his closet, pulling on his coat and snatching his scarf off the counter. Without even bothering to look back at John, he swept through the door and was halfway down the stairs before John grabbed his wrist, pulling Sherlock around and stopping him from reaching the landing.

"Do you have any idea what you're getting into?"

"John, I have to go get her." Sherlock's face was full of earnest pleading, begging John to understand.

John knew what his friend was capable of. He had seen this man perform nothing short of miracles, applying his knowledge and saving others. Sherlock had always been the cold, calculating figure, hiding in the shadows and trusting his head. This was someone else. Someone who was trusting his gut and living for what he cared about.

This man seemed very…human. Someone who was able perform so much more than he had before.

John released him and looked directly into his friend's eyes. "I'm coming with you."

Sherlock made no response, but turned and bolted down the stairs, John mere steps behind him and cramming a gun in his jacket.

The door swung shut on the empty landing as the two men ran into the night.

….

_1 hour, 45 minutes_

_Hello everyone. Long pause. Much to do, everyone sends their love. _

_I've missed you guys. A lot has happened in not a lot of time, and it's made posting very difficult. Things haven't gone the best for me this winter, and I'm glad that I can get back on my laptop and writing again. On the other hand I've got some new stories that'll be published soon. Two one-shots and a potential new series! I hope you enjoy them as much as you've enjoyed the flat mates. Any thoughts on the ending? No? Well, don't worry, only two chapters to makes me sad to think about that, honestly. I hate to see these characters go away, even though they never listen. _

_It always seems to end the same way. I start out with a brilliant chapter idea, with a distinct plan of where my characters are going to go. _

_And then they disregard me completely and do whatever the hell they want. I guess it's better that way. _

_In other not so somber news, I bought a typewriter. Hooray_

_Love always, and still praying for your patience,_

_Jay_


	21. Heartbreak

Heartbreak

_In which things fall_

"How do you feel about the beejees?" Jim asked, giving Lana a good jerk to pull her through the doorway.

The wave of night air was like being doused in cold water; she could feel it wash over her and seep into her core. After days in captivity, the cold air felt tight on her face. She shivered involuntarily under her thin clothing against the biting December wind and wished her kidnappers could have brought her jacket.

"No opinion. They're just another band. By the way, what are we doing up here?"

"Open air, city view, nice spot for a good murder." Jim glanced at his phone while Lana gave him a withering look. She rubbed her arms as another icy gust sent tremors through her body.

Jim regarded her with a mirthless grin and held out his own jacket. She didn't want to be near it; the idea of touching anything that belonged to Jim Moriarty was repulsive. She pulled away from him as though the sight of the jacket would give her blisters and sores, struggling against the urges to shiver again.

"Take it," Jim said his voice poison and velvet. "You should at least be warm before things get ugly."

Lana shook uncontrollably again and snatched the jacket away from him. Despite being simple, it was surprisingly warm.

The jacket smelled like blood and wine. Lana shuddered, not from the cold.

Jim circled her like a hungry panther, his eyes glinting with suppressed glee. "I must say, you do pull off the short hair surprisingly well. I wonder what Sherlock will think."

Lana ran her hands through her choppy hair. Jim had taken a pair of office scissors and a pocket knife to her waist length waterfall, leaving her with an exposed neck and the look of a barber shop mistake. Lana felt for every split end and badly hacked section. Every texture, every sight and sound and shiver was so precious. Lana knew she was running on limited time, and that she would grind to a halt whenever her demonic puppet master decided to stop pulling the strings.

Lana turned away from him and crossed to the edge of the roof. Far below, a galaxy of lights shot past, people living out their lives, fighting home to their loved ones, unaware of what was happening twenty three stories above them.

She thought of Sherlock. Where was he? Hopefully, far away. Far enough away that Jim could never reach him and her fate would never trouble him.

Then the door to the roof was thrown open, and her heart broke.

Sherlock and John rushed onto the roof, both armed and angry. John was determined and taught, ready to blast Jim off the roof at a moment's notice, but Sherlock… Sherlock was the embodiment of rage.

The shadows rising behind him cast black wings onto the walls behind him as he advanced on Jim, pinning him against the side of the roof; an angel of death seeking vengeance. He shoved his pistol against Jim's jaw and glared down in a blind fury.

"Miss me?" asked Jim, smiling seductively up into Sherlock's face.

"You wanted me. Here I am. I'll give you the fight of your life, you-"

"Sherlock, don't!" Lana broke through his angry hiss, stepping closer but not daring to get too close. "Don't kill him. You can't kill him or others will die too."

"Your girlfriend's absolutely right," Jim replied, pushing away from Sherlock and straightening his jacket. "I suggest you put the gun away, sweetheart. We've got business to discuss."

While Sherlock didn't put the gun back, he did lower it to his side, and Jim took it as surrender. He slipped his hands into pockets and viewed them all with a terrifying look of excitement. Psycho on a sugar rush.

"Well then, kiddies, let's get a move on, shall we?" Jim turned away from them and looked out across the city lights, hovering in the lightly falling snow. "So many people, all living their lives. So much idiocy flowing through these streets it's almost sickening. Everyone is trapped in their own little worlds, moving forward and ignoring all the important things. People should really be more careful. They never know when their internal clocks are going to run out."

"And you think you have control over when these internal clocks run out." Sherlock retorted, still staring at Jim's back and doing his best not to look at Lana.

He couldn't allow himself to crack. Not right now.

"People are always so naïve. They think they have power over their own lives, when really it lies in the hands of a few choice individuals. Avenging angels, passing judgment on the lower beings."

"Your think you're on the side of the angels now?" Sherlock's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the gun.

"I think I have a higher level of control over life and death than most. Who would want to be on the side of the angels, anyway? It's so ordinary, being the hero. And besides, the hero always has too many rules; it's why they're so easy to beat.

"No, Sweetie, I'm a villain, through and through. And tonight, I'm going to show you just how much power I have. I'm going to make you like me."

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock started forward.

"Don't," John cut him off. "What aren't you telling us. You've gotten us here, you're using us for your entertainment, now what are we supposed to do?"

"It's obvious, John," Sherlock replied without turning around. "He talked about having control over life and death, over multiple people. Therefore we can infer he's talking about a multiple homicide. Could be multiple snipers, but a bomb is much more likely. He's gambling with their lives tonight, and we know he's smart enough not to have the detonator on him tonight, so he's going to have a triggerman waiting for the cue to set the bomb off.

"I don't suppose the location of the bomb really matters, seeing as it won't go off tonight anyway, which leaves us only with the question of how we stop it from going off."

"We die."

She spoke so simply, so quietly in the atmosphere of terror and taught emotions, that at first it was as though no one had heard her. Then John turned to look at her.

"You know what he's talking about?"

"Enough to know his plan. It's not like he didn't gloat when he got the chance. In order to save everyone else, we have to die. Then he'll call of the killings."

"Right on the mark, Sweetie," Jim simpered, "a perfect explanation, it's almost as though you've been rehearsing it. But then again, I guess all the world's a stage, and-"

"Shut. Up." John shot at him, and looked back at Lana.

"Oh, I think you'll want to hear this, Dr. Watson. You wee, Miss Heart left out a very important point. Only one of you has to die tonight."

Jim walked up to Sherlock and held out his hand. "The gun, if you don't mind." He said softly.

Sherlock held his gaze and handed over the Colt Defender. Jim examined it carefully, smiling as he felt each groove and arch. "This is lovely," he commented, as he pulled out the bullet cartridge. No one responded as Jim dropped all of the bullets, save for one, onto the snow-dusted roof. They rang like tiny bells and rolled out of sight as Jim snapped the cartridge back into place, and turned back to face the three friends.

"Right, this is how this is going to work. John here is going to call the Yard. I'd say you'll have about 15 minutes before they get here, and in that time dear Sherlock is going to have to make his decision. "

"You haven't made me decide anything." Sherlock replied coolly. "There isn't anything to decide. I can hold you here easily until the Yard shows up."

"And if you do that, then you'll be killing hundreds of innocent people. Because if the Yard gets here and there isn't a corpse, then I will give the order and you'll be left with more corpses then even you can squirm your way out of. It won't matter what you do because in the end, I'll still vanish and the dear old Scotland Yard will be left with a pile of bodies, a burning city and only you to take the blame for it. Or you could do what I say," Jim turned and pointed,

"And put a bullet in her head."

Sherlock's breathing stopped.

Jim stepped up to him and pressed the almost-empty gun into the consulting detective's hand.

"Fifteen minutes, sweetheart."

He turned on his heel, walked up to Lana, slid his jacket off her shoulders and slipped away, coming to rest on the shadowed edge of the roof, his eyes gleaming with malice and success.

It was another minute or so before Sherlock spoke again.

"Lana."

He was trying to detach himself, trying to see only the problem, the facts, and what he could do to rectify the situation. But even now, as he pushed away all sound and sight from his mind, and attempted to boot up the hard drive of his brain, he something kept holding him back. His brain refused to fire as normal and he ached to slip back into his cold, hard shell so he could think through this logically.

And the worst part was not being able to understand why he couldn't.

"Sherlock."

He turned to look at her.

She was staring at him, trying not to let her emotions spill out in front of them and make the whole situation worse.

Sherlock looked at her, torn between wanting to look away and trying to focus and wanting to keep looking at her forever. He tried his best to memorize every curve and shadow of her face, the angles to her body, the light dancing in her eyes. He studied her like a crime scene; as though he could capture every detail in one look.

But even he could see there was so much more to her than the surface. He had held her close and kissed those lips and felt the skin and heard the heart that beat beneath her chest. There was so much more to this beautiful creature that he had allowed into his world, and now it was his last chance to try to understand her before she vanished for good.

Lana took another faltering step before Sherlock closed the distance between them.

The feel of her against his chest, her racing heart against his, even her smell; everything was suddenly razor sharp in his mind. And every word she spoke was a new knife in the heart.

"I didn't think we'd end like this," Lana said softly, almost in tears but still trying to smile. "Most people just break up."

"I'm not going anywhere and neither are you."

"Tell Emily the truth, will you? That I loved you and that you might have loved me. She deserves to know the truth, and she deserves to know how I died.

"I'll think of something. You're going to live."

"Sherlock, we both know that if the bullet doesn't kill me, the fall will."

"Everything's going to be fine, you're going to be fine-"

"No, I'm not. I'm going to die and you're going to save those people."

"At the cost of-"

"There's no greater cost than knowing you could have saved these people and chose not to."

"But there's-"

"It's over a thousand people-"

"But none of them are YOU!"

She stared at him as he fought to continue. "None of them are you, and I don't know why that matters so much to me when there are innocent people who could be saved."

Sherlock's shoulders fell. "I don't understand why it matters, Lana. I don't understand why you matter so much."

Lana reached up and felt his face, her touch setting his skin on fire. "I love you, too."

Her hand guided his face to hers, and she kissed him, her other hand sliding down to take his. Sherlock wound his free arm around her waist and held her in a precarious balance at the edge of the roof.

He didn't realize what she had done until the hand holding his had moved the gun to her stomach, and her fingers had pushed his against the trigger.

The bang shot across the city block like a cannon blast. Sherlock jumped back in mute horror as Lana shuddered, and her body arched backward, slipping over the edge of the roof.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as he reached down toward the falling body, until it fell onto a lower balcony with an ugly, sickening crack.

Everything blurred.

John was suddenly there, yelling into his cell phone. The snow was falling again, cool, soft feathers on his face. The sound of a clock striking midnight echoed in his ears.

And Jim Moriarty was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock pushed past his friend, throwing the door open and hurtling down the steps.

_It was a hallucination. It had not happened._

Fighting his way down three more flights of stairs and into the dim hallway, patrons sticking their heads out of doors to look in curiosity at the man hurtling past them in the black coat.

_The data is wrong. the rules are wrong. _

He grabbed a passing maid, wordlessly grabbing her keycard and shoving it into the lock. The light clicked on and he shot inside. Even in the darkness, he could see the light from outside pouring moonlight onto the carpet and illuminating a small, crumpled figure out on the balcony.

Sherlock knelt beside her. Lana looked tiny, frail, shattered. Her neck was twisted at a horrible angle, but the look on her face was so calm, she might have been sleeping. Asleep in a field of white.

Sherlock picked her up, noticing how light she was. He held her tightly to his chest, willing with all his might to hear her heart beating against his own.

There was nothing.

_Next-chapter 21_


	22. The Butterfly Waltz

Chapter 22- The Butterfly Waltz

The morgue was freezing. The pale, alien light through off the trio's skin in sharp relief and turned them all into white and blue ghosts. The circles under all three of their eyes were a dark, almost frightening contrast to the paleness of their skin; they looked like they all had identical bruises under their eyes.

Emily clutched John's arm for support as they moved through the morgue, making sure never to blink, never to stop moving, as though she would be afraid if she did, she would trapped in this nightmare. She would be reminded that this wasn't a dream.

John himself felt like he wanted to pass out. He wanted to comfort Emily. He wanted to run and run until his lungs gave out. He wanted to wring Moriarty's neck.

John shook away his thoughts and walked forward.

A large black bag sat on the table at the end of the row. When Emily saw it, she faltered. Just a little break in step, and then she blinked and held her head high and kept moving.

Molly stood next to the table. She looked horrible. Exhausted and distraught, she had the look of one running on adrenaline and bad coffee. Normally, under simple circumstances, Molly had been able to keep calm and not react. But this was different. This wasn't just a nobody or a jumper or a 67 year old man from IT. Now, she had lost her friend. She had to catalogue her friend's remains and shut her friend in a black plastic bag, shove her in a freezer and treat her like another statistic.

Trying not to let emotion take a firmer grip on her, Molly reached out and pulled John into an embrace. He accepted stiffly, trying to remain a soldier while biting back the urge to cry. She released him and wrapped her arms around Emily, who returned the hug and buried her face in Molly's shoulder to hide the tears behind her eyes. Molly stepped back, waited for Emily's nod, and unzipped the body bag.

Lana lay within the black plastic, the hair around her cheeks still dark from washing and cleaning away the blood. Her eyes were closed, and if it weren't for the body bag and dark surroundings, she might have been sleeping. Her neck, not completely set into its original place, still looked slightly off center.

Emily buried her face into John's jacket and let out a single dry sob. John guided her to the neighboring table and sat her on top. Her feet dangled like a small child's as she clung to his coat and shook. As John sat up on the table with her, Emily refused to let go of him, twisting the fabric in her hands and resting her head against his shoulder. She didn't look at Lana's body.

She couldn't look at Sherlock.

Emily hated him. She didn't want to, but she did. Every inch of her wanted to scream at him until her throat was raw, to scratch him until he bled, to make him feel the gaping, bleeding wound she felt. She couldn't stop the volley of thoughts that if he had never known Lana, her daughter, her baby, might still be alive.

And yet, she couldn't entirely blame him. He had loved her as much as she had.

…_._

"_You stole my gun?" asked Sherlock in surprise, sitting down in a chair to examine his newly-found sig. _

"_You stole my couch space."_

_He paused, his mouth slightly open. Lana smiled, triumphant, until he gave in. "shut up."_

"_So you ADMIT you stole my couch."_

_Sherlock looked appalled. "I didn't STEAL anything. And if I DID steal anything, I stole your couch SPACE. But you were the one who offered to let me stay here until the experiments were done and the flat stopped smelling like turpentine."_

"_Then where IS my couch?" Lana gestured to the space on her wall where the couch had, until very recently, stood. _

_Sherlock hesitated, a faint flush blooming on his cheeks. _

"_You didn't"_

"_It was either leave the couch here and let the drug dealers get away or plant the tracking device in the couch and let him take it."_

_The look on Lana's face could have turned some people to stone. "You are unbelievable. Just- Sherlock, it was my COUCH. I can't believe you would just sell my couch to a-" Her rant was cut as Sherlock stepped forward and shut her up._

_As they broke apart, Lana murmured."You're still sleeping on the floor, though."_

"_Am I?" Sherlock replied, and he threw her a wolfish grin as he sauntered out the door._

…_. _

Molly reentered the room with three mugs of awful Bart's coffee, and set them next to John. None of them had noticed her leave the room, but were thankful for the bit of warmth as they sat in the cold empty room. the snow danced across the window panes, and bells tolled out across the empty city, as the three people who loved Lana Heart most of all sat down to pay their respects.

Molly looked at her watch. it was long past visiting hours, but she couldn't bring herself to speak. Without a backward glance, she turned and left the morgue, searching for a place to mourn her friend alone.

She didn't belong with them.

John, Emily and Sherlock sat in silence. Nothing moved but the tick of the clock and the beat of their pulse. John held Emily until his arm went numb, but he didn't release her until he felt her breathing steady from the ragged stretch of crying. Slowly she relaxed, falling into a deep, and hopefully dreamless sleep. Carefully, John lifted his arm away and laid her on the table, covering her with his jacket. He then sat down on the other side of the table, beside his friend.

Sherlock wasn't looking at him. He wasn't looking anywhere. Somehow this lack of focus was even more terrifying than the iciest of his glares. John didn't know whether to hold him or to slap him, but he knew he wanted Sherlock back. Cold, calculating, somehow still caring Sherlock.

….

"_You are an absolute moron sometimes," John scolded, slamming the bottle of antiseptic onto the table and began dressing Lana's wounds. He glared steadily at Sherlock, who was pretending not to notice and was staring avidly at Lana's arm. _

"_It's just another scar, John," she replied. "One more to add to my collection."_

_Lana looked over her shoulder to Sherlock. "Anything you have to say, sweetie?"_

"_First of all, don't call me sweetie; this is not Doctor Who. Second, in my defense, the chainsaw was propped up against the door and was only supposed to assist me. If someone got hurt, it wasn't my fault."_

"_Wasn't the point for you to hurt something?" John asked absentmindedly, covering Lana's room with a bandage._

"_I needed it to saw through what was left of that coffin; Missus Hudson took my hatchet." Sherlock got up and headed for his room. _

"_Let's back up," Lana said, pulling herself out of the chair and following him. "What hatchet?" _

….

"John."

The voice was hoarse, not from crying, but from lack of use. John looked up in surprise. Sherlock was looking at the floor as though willing a hole to appear and swallow him up.

"John, I need you to call Emily a taxi, please. Take her home to Baker Street so she doesn't freeze."

John stayed where he was for a moment, unsure of what to say, what to do.

"Please, John. Now."

John nodded and slipped out of the room, into the slightly warmer hallway.

He reached into his pocket for his phone, looking out at the city as he prepared to dial a number.

"No need, John." Said a new, but familiar voice.

John turned around. Mycroft was standing there, with his typical suit and umbrella. In his other hand was his phone.

"You already called?" asked John, exhausted. He sank onto the nearby bench and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Of course, "Mycroft replied. He pocketed the phone and sat beside John. The two men sat, watching the city lights spread out before them.

"You're a survivor, Dr. Watson, I could give you that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean anyone who associates with my brother seems to have a nasty habit of vanishing or getting themselves killed. You must be congratulated on your persistence."

"He loved her. How can you judge him for that?"

"I never said I judged him. Miss Heart did something I never thought was possible; she unlocked his heart and made him something both weaker and greater than he could have ever been on his own."

"And you think that makes him weak."

"I observe the changes in him. Nothing more, nothing less. And right now I see the only girl he ever loved without viewing her as an adversary has caused him to tear himself apart."

"He's mourning her. Doesn't that prove he's human?"

"When has his humanity ever worried him?" asked Mycroft, staring through the window. "and now that it worries him, how will he react?"

There was a very long pause.

"Then what do we do?"

"What can we do, John?" Mycroft lit a cigarette and inhaled, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling.

John stood up. "I have to try and help him."

He was almost through the door when an arm caught him. John looked into Mycroft's earnest face.

"Give him time, John. Let him heal."

….

"_What are you listening to?"_

_Sherlock pulled one of Lana's ear buds out and she fixed him with a glare. "Classical music. Can I have my ear bud back?"_

_But the consulting detective was sticking the ear bud into his own ear and listening intently now. Lana was fascinated by the look of calm that stretched over his face. "this is beautiful," he commented, tapping out the light ¾ pattern on his knee. "What is it?"_

"_It's called the Butterfly Waltz," Lana responded, standing up to keep her own ear bud in as Sherlock suddenly stood up. "Hey! What was that for?"_

_Sherlock looked at her for a moment, and took her hand. "May I have this dance?"_

_Lana turned pink. "What?"  
>"You heard me," Sherlock replied, his face expressionless. "Dancing. I assume you know how to waltz?"<em>

"_Yes, but-" Lana felt the rest of her sentence torn away as Sherlock took her waist and guided her into a dance in the middle of her apartment. She tried very hard to focus on her feet, making sure she didn't appear too cumbersome, or stepped on his toes. Sherlock spun her out and back in, and an uncontrollable giggle escaped her lips. _

"_Why do girls always do that?" asked Sherlock, spinning her around in time to the soft tune._

"_What, giggle?" Lana responded, not looking up._

"_Yes, it seems to be a universal reaction whenever anyone spins your species."_

"_Species?" Lana almost laughed. "We're not exactly aliens, you know."_

"_You might as well be. you and Anderson; two species I will never fully understand._

"_And Lana, you can look up. You're doing fine."_

_Lana looked up in surprise to find Sherlock looking at her with an expression of quiet amusement. She blushed, but kept her head up, and followed Sherlock into a final turn and dip as the song faded into silence_

…_.. _

It was long after the echoing footsteps had faded that Sherlock finally moved.

He had wrapped himself in his black coat, sitting as far away from Emily and John as possible while keeping Lana's body in view. He clenched his jaw and refused to speak a word. The cup of coffee had been cold for over an hour and remained untouched beside his arm. Now, he pushed off his seat and stepped up to the table.

Sherlock looked down at Lana, and felt something rise in the back of his throat. Every piece of her brought back new memories. Lana, covered in sheep gore, fighting for her forceps back. Lana, cradling her colt defender and ducking between alleys. Cooking dinner and making snarky jokes. Typing to meet a deadline. Talking on the phone. Photographing a crime scene. Dancing, laughing. Kissing him.

"I love you. "

The words forced themselves out into the room, too big to be kept back by just his mouth. And now the crack was open and words were pouring out.

"I love you, and I've never said that to anyone. You're different and wild and beautiful. And I love you so, so much."

He became aware of the tears etching his face, silently falling along with the tidal wave of words.

_Fact- All data suggests cause of death was the snapping of the neck. Survival rate of a gunshot wound is around 15%, but once the nervous system has been breached, statistically the numbers drop._

"please." He reached out and found her cold, tiny hand. "Please. I don't want to go back to being me. I don't want to be a cold, heartless bastard anymore."

_Fact- after a fall of nearly three stories onto her neck and shoulders, the collarbone shattered, and the axis snapped forward, causing a cervical fracture._

He gripped her tighter, willing her to twitch, to stir, to snap at him. "I need you here, Lana"

_Once gone, nothing can truly come back. _

_Fact._

"I need you."

….

Some time later, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and whipped around.

John stood there. He had his jacket in one hand, but suddenly stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his best friend.

"I've got you," john whispered.

Sherlock stayed perfectly still, stiff with sadness and rage and emotions he didn't quite understand. Slowly he raised his arms and wrapped them around john's shoulders, keeping his eyes open and focused on the back wall. He didn't want John to know what had happened. He didn't want to feel nothing, but he certainly didn't want to feel weak. Finding that balance was difficult, and he fought to remain stoic.

It was a long time before the two men finally left the morgue.

John hit the switch on the way out, one arm still around Sherlock. the morgue was thrown into momentary darkness before the lights of the city outside entered to cast their own shadows. Blocks of light from the windows reflected off the tables and autopsy equipment.

Lana's body still lay on the slab, the light playing off her still beautiful face. In one hand was looped a long silver chain.

_The End_

**Author's note; **_**Chapter 22.1**_

**Hey everyone. **

**This is chapter 22.1 **

**You see? You see what I did there?**

**Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you to all you readers for following my little story it's conclusion. I've never done this before, but now I definitely know I want to do more. I mean a lot more. As in as soon as possible. **

**And it's cool because I love good storytelling and I love good characters, and I that's all I can really hope for. That you guys like my characters and enjoyed yourselves on the journey. **

**Even though the ending was sad. **

**Yes, I know, I know, I pulled a Moffat. Or a Whedon. And everyone hates when that happens. But I am glad that you guys cared that much. I really am.**

**So here's some other news.**

**Lana Heart is real. Very real. She exists in my world and in my friend's world and the literary world now. But there is one little thing; she cannot die. She is made of all my friends best traits (and my height) and so she is an original character who cannot die. Or at least cannot stay dead.**

**I wrote a short story in which Lana actually makes it out alive from her little adventures. If you want to check that out, you can find it on very shortly, under the title **_**The Watchmaker**_** it's just a little story but there is (get this, I'm super excited about this) going to be a full story about her coming out soon (you know, just as soon as i finish it.) but again, thank you for reading, and I hope you'll maybe even read more.**

**Praying forever for your patience, and that you have a wonderful summer, **

**Jay**


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